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The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen windows, golden and warm, catching in the tiny wisps of Julie’s sandy-blond hair as she babbled and kicked her little legs against the high-chair. The aroma of toasted bread and brewing coffee mingled with the faint scent of Ilya’s cologne lingering from the day’s practice, an unmistakable mix of cedar and patchouli.
Outside, the snow had started to melt along the driveway, a mess of slush threatening Shane’s boots when he’d go outside later to shovel. Inside, the house was chaos incarnate: toddler toys strewn across the living room, a half-finished history assignment on the dining table, and a full-scale parental negotiation taking place beside it.
Ilya sat at the head of the table, arms crossed, weight braced like he was preparing for impact.
“She wears too much black,” he said, as if reading charges aloud. “People who wear that much black are hiding something.”
Irina, perched on a chair with one knee tucked under her, groaned. “It’s called fashion, Dad.”
Julie sat in her high chair nearby, gnawing on a silicone spoon with single-minded determination, blissfully immune to generational conflict.
Ilya’s gaze narrowed to something sharp enough to cut glass. Shane had learned, over the years, that his husband’s narrowed eyes always meant trouble, or, at the very least, skepticism of the highest order.
“Ilya…” Shane began, voice calm, the slightest edge of warning in it, but he knew it was futile; Julie’s giggles from her seat punctuated the tension like a metronome. She babbled, clapping her hands excitedly at the commotion.
The eleven-month-old had yet to master reading the room, but was more than determined to make up for it in enthusiasm.
“Dad, I’m serious!” Irina insisted, her eyes wide and pleading. “Dana’s a good person, I promise!”
“Dana,” Ilya drawled, dragging out her name like it was a chore to say, “has a nose ring,” he concluded flatly, as if that alone should have ended the discussion.
Irina groaned. “It’s a stud. And you have, like, three scars on your face!”
Julie promptly started conducting an invisible orchestra with her flailing arms.
“Oh, stop that, you little terror,” Irina murmured when she squealed again, reaching out to catch her baby sister’s tiny fists in one gentle hand, a smile softening her face despite the ongoing interrogation.
“They are respectable scars,” Ilya shot back. “Earned. In war.”
“In junior hockey,” Shane corrected mildly from the counter, not looking up from where he was rinsing a bottle.
“Okay, listen,” she said, turning back to Ilya with renewed determination. “Yeah, she dyes her hair. Yeah, she dresses unconventionally. But she’s nice. She volunteers at the animal shelter. She helped Mrs. Kowalski with her groceries without even being asked. She texts me good morning every single day!”
Ilya’s gaze sharpened, like a hawk spotting a field mouse. “Criminals also text,” he said flatly.
“Criminals? Oh my god! Daddy, will you talk to him?” Irina pleaded, turning toward Shane, who turned the tap off with a sigh.
“Ilya,” Shane sighed. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”
“It’s ridiculous,” Irina sulked, neatly braided hair making her look just as she’d done when she was seven, chasing Ilya around the yard with squeals of delight while Shane recorded. The sight only softened his heart further.
“I am vigilant,” Ilya corrected, chest puffing slightly. “Is what good dads do.”
“Vigilant,” Shane repeated with a hum. He leaned on the counter, glancing at Irina, then back at Ilya. “Do you remember our rookie season?”
Ilya stiffened, his gaze flicking to Shane like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “...I do not see the relevance.”
Shane smiled, unapologetic. “You nearly got suspended for breaking the locker-room chair in a fit of rage.”
Julie chose that moment to shriek with delight, flinging the spoon onto the floor. Shane scooped it up without looking, rinsed it in the sink, and continued like this was all perfectly routine.
“She has several piercings,” Ilya tried again, firmer now. “Nose. Ear. Cartilage.”
“You pierced your own nipple with a safety pin,” Shane replied immediately. “In a club bathroom, might I add.”
Irina lit up, like Shane had told her they’d be leaving for a month and she had free reign to throw as many parties as she wanted.
“That was different! Was an emergency!” Ilya shot back, straightening up with a glare.
“You were drunk, you mean,” Shane deadpanned.
“Also emergency,” Ilya grumbled.
Irina laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Dad, what the hell?”
Ilya glowered. “I was young. And stupid. Was idiotic of your daddy to date me.”
“We weren’t exactly dating back then,” Shane pointed out, to which Irina made a show of gagging exaggeratedly.
“I take it back, Daddy, stop talking,” she insisted, shuddering, and Shane smiled.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, despite her dismissal. “Irina was raised by you. And she’s doing okay, despite her father’s less-than-stellar record.”
Irina made a show of brushing off her shoulders. “Thriving, actually.”
Julie slapped her tray enthusiastically, as if agreeing.
Ilya exhaled through his nose, regrouping, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “This Dana, she looks… rebellious,” he protested weakly.
Shane tilted his head. “You stole a motorcycle at seventeen.”
“Borrowed!” Ilya insisted, eyes widening in affront.
“You never returned it.”
“Owner never asked,” the Russian shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t been fined thousands of dollars.
“You fled the province,”
Ilya bristled. “You were the one who asked me to marry you, not the other way around,” he sulked.
“Yes,” Shane agreed serenely, not hesitating for a moment. “Because you were convincing. That’s kind of my point.”
The room went quiet for a moment, save for Julie’s happy babbling and the distant hum of the fridge. Ilya looked between his husband and his daughter, cornered in a way that Shane knew had nothing to do with logic, and everything to do with memory.
“She’s kind,” Irina said softly, no longer defensive. “She listens to me. She makes sure I get home safe. She holds my hand when I’m nervous.”
Shane watched Ilya carefully as she spoke. He saw the shift, the way the suspicion faltered, just a little, replaced by something older and more raw; fear.
Ilya cleared his throat. “...She makes you laugh?”
Irina smiled without thinking. “Yeah. All the time.”
Another beat.
“And… She treat you gently?” he asked, quieter now.
“Yes.”
Julie leaned forward in her chair, arms outstretched. “Dada!”
Shane lifted her, settling her against his chest, and stepped closer to Ilya. “You don’t have to love her yet,” he said softly. “But you do have to trust Irina. You taught her how to choose.”
Ilya looked at his daughter, grown too fast, stubborn and bright and impossibly theirs, and then at the baby in Shane’s arms, drooling happily onto his sweater.
At last, he nodded once.
“I will meet her,” he conceded with a sigh. “And I will be nice.”
Irina beamed. “Seriously? Thank you so much, Dad! You’re the best!”
“But,” Ilya added, lifting a finger, “if she breaks your heart—”
“I know, I know,” Irina said exasperatedly. “You’ll bury the body.”
Shane winced. “We’ve talked about not saying that.”
Julie clapped, and Irina rolled her eyes, giving Ilya that look Shane had learned meant ‘give it up for Captain Fun over here’, which his husband fondly returned. Shane couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. Not when Irina was smiling like that, nor when Ilya reached out to squeeze Julie’s tiny foot.
Instead, he huffed, rocking Julie gently. “He’ll come around. It’s in his nature. After all, he survived you.” He glanced at Ilya, a small, conspiratorial smile playing on his lips. “And survived us.”
Ilya’s eyebrow twitched, one corner of his mouth lifting reluctantly. “Do not lump me in with you, Hollander.”
“Think you resigned the right not to be lumped in with me when you said ‘I do’,” Shane replied serenely.
“I’m gonna call her right now,” Irina said excitedly, but Shane stopped her with a little gesture of ‘clean up first, phone after’. She groaned, but obeyed, hurrying off to leave her dishes in the sink, disappearing upstairs before Shane could tell her to use the dishwasher.
Sighing fondly, he sank down at the table beside his husband.
Ilya was unusually quiet, blinking rapidly in a way that suggested his feelings were troubling him again.
“Hey,” Shane murmured, eyebrows furrowing at once, reaching out to take Ilya’s hand in his. “Hey… What’s wrong?”
“...Seventeen,” Ilya managed, voice choked up. “Irina is already seventeen. Feels like yesterday she was not tall enough to cook beside me without standing on a chair.”
Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand gently, leaning in a little so their shoulders touched. The warmth between them was quiet but undeniable, mingling with the smell of toasted bread and coffee still lingering in the kitchen. Julie squirmed briefly in his lap, babbling happily, but Shane didn’t flinch. He let her tiny weight anchor him while he focused on Ilya.
“I know,” Shane murmured softly. “I feel it too. Seventeen already… Where did the time go?”
Ilya blinked rapidly again, jaw tight. “She’s… she’s choosing… people. People she cares about… and we have no say. And she’s almost adult.” His voice cracked just a little.
“You do have a say, Ilya,” Shane said gently, tilting his head to catch his husband’s gaze. “You’ve always been there for her, teaching her, guiding her… she’s us, just grown up. And now, she’s showing us the person she’s becoming. You’re not losing her. She’s bringing the right people in.”
Ilya let out a shaky breath, fingers tightening around Shane’s. “But… What if she hurts herself? Think of how much we hurt ourselves. How many times—”
His voice cracked, and he rubbed his hands with his palms. “Sorry,” he croaked, and Shane immediately wrapped him in a tight embrace.
“I know,” he breathed, because he did know. He’d known every second since that first summer in the cottage, that while the hurt they’d undergone had been worth it to get where they are now, it would’ve been so much easier not to experience it.
“I know, Ilya. But look at who she is. She’s careful, she’s smart, she’s kind. And she’s still your daughter. You taught her how to be this person. You’ve done your job better than you realize.”
Julie giggled, reaching out to grab Ilya’s arm. He looked down at the tiny hand, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his lips despite his red-rimmed eyes. Shane leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’re not losing her, Ilya. We’re just trusting her. Like we always tell her to trust herself.”
Ilya exhaled slowly, finally letting some of the tension go, though his gaze stayed fixed on the stairs. “…I just… I don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted softly.
“You’ll never feel ready,” Shane said gently, tilting his head so their foreheads touched. “But she’ll be okay. And you’re not alone in this. You have me, and we have Julie, and we have each other. And she’s going to be fine, I promise you.”
Ilya’s hand twitched slightly in Shane’s grasp, then relaxed. He leaned into Shane’s side, small, exhaled, and finally let himself breathe. Julie clapped again, almost as if sensing the peace settling in the room, and Shane chuckled quietly, hugging both of them close.
“…Seventeen,” Ilya whispered again, this time with a soft shake of his head, more wonder than worry. “Already.”
“Yeah,” Shane murmured, brushing a lock of hair from Ilya’s forehead. “Already. And look at her. Look at all of us. We’re still here. We’ll figure it out, together.”
Ilya let out a faint, amused huff, finally letting a trace of warmth shine through the lingering worry. “Together,” he echoed.
Julie gurgled happily in Shane’s arms, and for the first time that evening, the kitchen felt calm, whole, and impossibly like home.
“Give me baby,” Ilya insisted then, almost petulant. Shane smiled, gently transferring their younger daughter into his husband’s arms.
Immediately, Ilya buried his face in her warm, baby-soft belly, and she shrieked with delight.
Julie kicked and wriggled happily, tiny arms flailing as Ilya held her closer, the smell of baby shampoo and his cologne mingling in the warm kitchen air. Her little squeals echoed against the walls, filling the space with a light, unbridled joy that made Shane grin despite himself.
“You are handful. You get this from your other daddy, yes?” Ilya murmured, voice muffled against her Winnie-the-Pooh onesie. Julie responded with a sharp squeal, then curled her tiny fingers around a lock of his hair.
“Oh? Thought I was where she got her ‘boring’ from,” Shane mumbled fondly.
“That, too,” Ilya huffed.
He shifted Julie slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and she responded with a gleeful squeak that could only be described as rapturous approval.
“You never grow up. Stay baby forever, so daddies and sister can keep you in our pockets all your life,” Ilya murmured to her, and Shane smiled.
“...That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” he mumbled softly.
Ilya looked up at him, teary-eyed, smiling.
“Yes. But… Is nice when they grow up, too.”
“Yeah,” Shane smiled. “Yeah, it is.”