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Shane woke up to the kind of quiet that only existed in their house during the summer. No buzzing alarms, no early-morning texts from coaches. Just the soft filter of sunlight through the curtains and the solid, familiar weight of Ilya’s arm draped across his chest.
Last night was great, but off-season morning sex is hard to beat. He wanted that, a good run, and omelets and tropical smoothie this morning, the fancy recipe that Ilya learned from some girl on TikTok last week. He smiled without opening his eyes, pressing back into the warmth behind him, already reaching for kisses.
His lips found skin. Warm, smooth, the spot just below Ilya’s ear that always made him groan.
But the body against him went rigid, completely still. Dead silent.
Shane’s eyes snapped open.
The man beside him was Ilya, unmistakably Ilya, with the same sharp cheekbones, the same blonde curls falling over his forehead, the same fine jawline and lips, but so much younger. The faint lines around his eyes were gone, the loon tattoo hadn’t happened yet, and his shoulders were narrower, less filled out by more than a decade of NHL grinding. This Ilya’s eyes were wide, panicked, almost swallowed by blown pupils.
Not his Ilya.
“What the fuck,” Shane breathed, jerking back. This Ilya scrambled away so fast he nearly fell off the bed, sheets tangling around his waist, staring at Shane like he’d grown a second head. “Hollander? What—how— This is not hotel room.” His accent was thicker, the English rougher around the edges, the way it had been before years in North America smoothed it.
Shane sat up slowly, “No. It’s… our house in Ottawa.”
Ilya looked around the room in growing horror, “I, we, at hotel, All Star.” The walls are covered in framed photos: them on a dock in the summer, sun-kissed and laughing; them hoisting the Cup together in matching jerseys; them in matching suits together under string lights, barefoot on the grass; them together at Christmas with what looks like Shane’s parents, Ilya wearing a ridiculous sweater, grinning like a kid.
This was rookie Ilya. Not even twenty, fresh on his first pro season, still carrying that raw, defensive edge he’d worn like armor before Shane learned how to slip past it.
Ilya’s gaze snapped to Shane’s left hand. “Married?” The word came out strangled, half-laugh, half-disbelief. Shane couldn’t tell if it’s joy or disgust.
Shane nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. We’re married, well, me and future you.”
Ilya laughed again, sharp, brittle, the sound he used to make on the ice when he was rattled and trying not to show it. “No. Impossible. We fuck twice. Two nights. I am— I can’t—” He gestured wildly at himself, at the bed, at Shane. “Careful. Not… this.”
Shane’s chest ached with memory. They were frantic, pulling away fast, pretending it was nothing afterwards to rebuild distance. Barely handling their new professional life but not yet ready for adult feelings and their own emotions.
But the obsession had started those nights for both of them.
“We figured it out,” Shane said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Somehow.” He’s not bringing up FanMail and the almost plane crash to nineteen-year-old Ilya.
Ilya pulled his knees to his chest, he’s still naked, looking suddenly very very young. “How switch back?”
Shane wished he had an answer. “I don’t know. But we’ll try.”
They stared at each other across the bed. The air crackled. The familiar heat, the same pull that had always existed between them, but now layered with strangeness. Shane’s body knew this man intimately, every sound, every sensitive spot. But this Ilya was looking at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face.
And yet… Ilya’s gaze flicked down Shane’s bare chest, lingered, then jerked away, cheeks flushing dark.
Horny. Confused. Scared.
Same as Shane.
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This could not be real.
Ilya’s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his throat. He was in bed with Shane Hollander— married Shane Hollander—Shane Hollander who married Ilya Rozanov—who was looking at him with soft, fond eyes that made Ilya’s stomach flip in ways he’d spent so long pretending didn’t happen.
Two nights. That’s all they’d had. Both times Ilya had been secretly anxious, touching Shane, being touched. Putting his walls up to persuade himself this is all casual, to hide how bad he wanted him.
He’d written pages about it in the notebook he kept hidden, stupid, sentimental things he’d never admit. How Shane made his chest hurt. How he wanted to know more about Shane, do more with Shane, but knew he couldn’t have it.
And now this future version of Shane was telling him they’d figured it out? Married? Happy?
The photos on the wall felt like a punch. Looks like they’ve been having great careers… and great lives together. Them older, relaxed, touching openly. Them with trophies. Them with Shane’s parents, Ilya looking soft in a way he’s never allowed to.
Ilya’s eyes stung. He blinked hard.
Shane, older Shane, with slightly longer hair, broader shoulders, but the same freckles, was watching him carefully. “You okay?”
“No,” Ilya said honestly. Voice cracked. “This is… too much.”
Shane nodded, no judgment. “Yeah. For me too. Seeing you like this.”
They got up and got dressed eventually, because staying in bed felt too dangerous. The heat between them was already simmering, familiar and terrifying.
Shane lent him clothes with a smirk on his face. An old Montreal T-shirt that hung a little loose on rookie shoulders, soft sweatpants that pooled at his ankles comfortably. They smelled like Shane, like clean shampoo, very faint cologne, something warm and steady.
Ilya buried his nose discreetly in the collar as he pulled it on, inhaling deeply. He realized, with a pang, that he didn’t really know what home smelled like anymore, but Shane’s clothes… they smelled like it. Strange that he had only slept with his future husband twice, but he felt safe and wanted. He’s accepting this much faster and easier than he expected. He’s not sure if Shane could sense it, he’s not used to showing other people he feels safe and happy.
In the kitchen, they moved around each other like strangers trying not to touch. Ilya chopped onions for omelets with mechanical precision, the way his mother taught him before she got sick. Shane brewed coffee, strong the way Ilya liked it even back then, apparently.
Their hips brushed reaching for the same pan. Both froze.
“Sorry,” Shane muttered.
“Is okay,” Ilya said it louder than he meant to, voice rough.
They ate at the kitchen island, quiet. Ilya kept stealing glances, Shane’s hands around the mug, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Familiar and brand-new.
Shane’s phone buzzed. FaceTime. He hesitated, looked at Ilya, “It’s my parents.” Ilya froze immediately and looked at him almost helplessly. Shane felt his heart being squeezed for a second. He said in his softest way possible, “They love you, it’ll be quick. My mom’s Yuna, and my dad’s name is David.” Ilya swallowed and nodded. They looked like nice, friendly people from the pictures in their, well, Shane and future him’s bedroom, Yuna was fixing his hair in one of the pictures. Ilya found it hard to imagine what that might feel like. It’s been a few years since he lost Irina. He shook the thought out of his head, trying to act presentable.
Yuna’s face filled the screen, smiling widely. “Shane! Good morning, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.”
David leaned in. “Where’s our favorite son? Ilya have you tried the whiskey I brought last time? I have thoughts to share with you.”
Ilya nearly dropped his fork.
Shane glanced at him, eyes soft. “He’s right here. Say hi.”
The camera swung. Ilya forced a wave, throat tight.
Yuna’s smile turned radiant. “Ilya! There he is. You look tired, sweetheart, are you eating enough? I’m making that pasta for you on Friday. With extra parmesan.”
Ilya managed a few words, thank you, miss you, can’t wait. It feels weird to be so polite, to be such a good son-in-law, and to feel somehow a little pleasant with himself about that. This is scary. He didn’t even know how to be a good son yet. They asked about his summer training, told him Shane’s cousin in Toronto is getting married and they already have all four plane tickets booked, and that they’re so proud of him as always. Bye love you sons, see you Friday.
When the call ended, Ilya stared at his plate.
“They… call me son?”
Shane’s voice gentle, he knew exactly what Ilya was thinking right now, he had brought this up and talked about this feeling with Shane multiple times since he first met his parents at the cottage. “Yeah. You’re their favorite son.”
Ilya stood up fast, mumbled some excuse, fled to the bathroom. Splashed water on his face. Stared at his reflection, young, scared. Not the man in those photos.
-----------------------------------
He wanted to give Ilya space. This version of Ilya was so raw, his defenses high, emotions hidden deep inside his heart. It reminded Shane of the early years, when every touch felt like a risk. He was so scared too at that age.
He found Ilya later by the desk, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of an open drawer. Notebooks spread around him. His Ilya’s handwriting, dense pages in Russian. Shane knew Ilya kept the past ones together with the current one in the same drawer. Ilya told him he sometimes just had to write everything on his mind down to relax, so Shane had been getting him new notebooks every few months.
The one with flowers that Yuna brought him from Japan was by his right knee, the blue leather cover one Shane gave him as a part of his apology after a bad fight was facing down on his left, and the disturbingly colorful one Shane got in a rush from a gas station was sitting on his lap, open. Shane got him a much better one right after that, thinking the gas station one looked cheap, but apparently Ilya never threw it away and kept writing on it.
Ilya’s head snapped up, guilty flush. “I—sorry. Found these by accident. Shouldn’t—”
Shane crouched beside him, gentle. “It’s okay. Those are… his. Private. He never showed me. I know they’re for when feelings get too big.”
Ilya’s fingers traced a page. “All in Russian.”
Shane nodded. “Yeah. I figured. I want to respect that.”
Ilya looked up, hesitant. “You… want read?”
Shane blinked. “Yeah, I do. But I wanna give him space. And you too, if you want time alone with them.”
Ilya shook his head slowly. “No. Stay?”
Shane settled beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Ilya translated and read quietly in English, voice thick. He did want to know more about future him. He looked so happy and kind of had everything he ever wanted.
Buy Shane boring smoothie ingredients on the way home from airport!!!
Talk power play top unit with coach, try more shots right from the face-off dot
He smiles at me like I’m good. How handle this?
Mama, miss you every day. So happy now, just married Shane tonight. Cried four times from happiness alone. Wish you here to see. He loves my everything. You don’t need to worry about me anymore.
Time to get another case for trophy room!
Cooked for parents tonight. Laughed whole time. Yuna liked the soup but less spice for David next time.
Shane couldn’t help noticing, “What does the one with the giant heart doodle say?”
Ilya’s face turned bright red, and Shane wished he could take a picture so he could show his Ilya when he comes back. This Ilya avoided looking him in the eyes, his eyes scanning the pages desperately trying to find something else to read to Shane and hoping he doesn’t notice.
He should’ve known Shane would never take that for an answer. Shane held his finger and pointed it at the heart. Ilya took a glance at Shane’s serious face and gave in to him.
Order ropes and ahh… blindfold so Shane can tie me up. Do not forget.
Shane was laughing, but his eyes were wet. Ilya suddenly wondered how much future him told Shane about his mother.
Ilya closed the notebook gently and looked around. “All this… real?”
Shane put an arm around his shoulder. “All real. You built it.”
Ilya leaned into him slowly, they stayed quiet for a while together.
-----------------------------------
He found Ilya in the trophy room later, standing in front of glass shelves gleaming with their hardware. Shane hadn’t been in this room in a while.
It seemed Ilya didn’t appear uncomfortable when he walked in this time. Ilya’s fingers traced the engraving on one Cup. “We won this?”
“Oh yeah, all of it,” Shane said quietly, stepping close. “You earned everything… Despite everything.”
Ilya’s voice small. “Father says I never enough. Brother too. Always ‘weak,’ ‘soft.’ I mess up always.”
Shane’s chest tightened. He remembered those calls. The drunken rages, the bruises Ilya hid under long sleeves sometimes. “You proved them wrong. On ice, off ice. You won cups, did charity work, ran kids’ camps… you’re a good leader. People love you.”
Ilya wouldn’t look Shane in the eyes. “How? Scared every game I’m not good, not good enough.”
Shane cupped his face carefully, like approaching a spooked animal. He tried to think what his nineteen-year-old self would like to hear. “You will figure everything out. You grow. We grow together. Put your head down and stick to what you want to achieve. Talk to me, talk to your friends, talk to yourself.” He hated how he sounded like a motivational hockey dad right now. “Maybe start falling in love with me earlier so we can train together more?” Well, that was his attempt to be funny but he genuinely meant it, too.
The space between them vanished. Ilya rested his chin on Shane’s shoulder, his hands hovered, then settled on Shane’s waist.
“Want you,” Ilya whispered. “But strange. You know me… now me and future me. I don't know you well yet.”
Shane’s heart stuttered. “I know. But I’m still me. And you’re still you. The parts that matter.”
Ilya laughed shakily. “Scary.”
“Yeah.” Shane brushed his hands over Ilya’s curls. “Good scary?”
Ilya leaned in closer, cheek against Shane’s neck. “Da.”
--------------------------------------------------
They’d settled on the couch with a careful distance between them. Two cushions, maybe three, the kind of space that felt polite but screamed everything else. Shane had picked some mindless action movie, something with explosions and zero plot, muttering that it was what everybody’s talking about right now. Ilya sat stiffly, arms crossed, pretending to watch the screen while his mind raced.
Every few minutes, he stole glances at Shane, his profile in the dim glow, relaxed, legs stretched out. Older Shane. Confident, at ease in his own skin, comfortable in his own home. Ilya felt his face heating up like never before and this mature, caring, charming Shane wasn’t even looking at him.
Halfway through, their hands reached for the healthy popcorn bowl at the same time. Fingers touching each other. Shane didn’t pull away first, he let his pinky rest against Ilya’s, light, testing. Is he thinking about the same thing as me?
Ilya didn’t move either.
Slowly, the gap closed. Shoulders brushing next, Shane shifting to get “comfy,” arm draping casually along the back of the couch. Ilya leaned in without thinking, drawn like gravity. Head on Shane’s shoulder eventually, breath syncing. Shane’s hand found his hair, fingers carding lazily, soothing.
Ilya’s defenses crumbled. This Shane felt so safe, although it almost feels like he can see through Ilya and know what he’s thinking easily. He trusted this Shane with his guts. No judgment in his touch, just patience, love, warmth.
Shane’s lips brushed his temple. “Can I?”
Ilya nodded against his shoulder. “Da.”
Kisses started soft, cheek, jaw, then mouth. Slow, exploratory. Hands wandered carefully over shirts, then under. Inevitable.
Shane pulled back, eyes dark but steady. “Bedroom? Only if you want. We can stop anytime.”
Ilya’s heart hammered. Want? God, yes. But fear too. This Shane knew everything, while Ilya felt raw, exposed. He looked at Shane’s freckles and felt dizzy.
“Yes,” Ilya whispered. “Want.”
------------------------------------------
Bedroom felt different with this Ilya. Younger, hesitant steps behind him, eyes wide taking in the space again. Photos of them older and happier on the dresser. Bed was made perfectly, matching pillows side by side.
The door clicked shut. He hovered near the nightstand, hands fidgeting, while Shane moved easy, shirt off, tossing it into the basket in the corner. This was his home, he knew every inch. Ilya stripped himself naked and dropped his clothes into the basket carefully. He still felt like a guest in this bedroom.
Ilya is not a virgin, but he still felt anxious with Shane. He wanted to impress, to please, to prove himself to this man who would eventually become his husband. This man that future him wrote so lovingly about in the notebook, this man that future him thinks would bring forever peace to Irina because he loves Ilya’s everything. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking to Shane’s body, he wanted to memorize this feeling forever so he could think about this whenever he feels helpless and all alone.
Shane stepped close and wiped his nose gently. “Hey. No pressure. We go slow.”
Ilya nodded, his voice firm. “I will impress you.”
Shane smiled. “You already do. Just being here.”
Shane guided him to the bed, spread his thighs below him, hand stroking Ilya’s cock.
“Where is… condom?” Ilya asked, he didn’t want to appear like some reckless teenager in front of Shane.
But Shane blinked in surprise. “Drawer. But… we don’t really use them anymore. Especially in the off-season when we’re not in a rush.”
Ilya’s eyes widened. “Bare?”
Shane searched his face. “Only if you’re comfortable. You sure?”
Ilya swallowed hard, cheeks flushing. Nodded firmly. “Want. With you.”
Shane grabbed the lube sitting shamelessly on their nightstand, prepped himself thoroughly, Ilya watched in silence, learning, didn’t quite realize he was holding his breath until probably almost a minute later.
Shane asked for and got his consent one last time when he put back the lube. Ilya couldn’t keep the moan in when he pushed inside, nothing prepared him for this. Bare, hot, overwhelming, Shane’s body taking him perfectly, legs wrapping around his waist, he closed his eyes and saw the face of the Shane that told him he couldn’t smoke there in Saskatchewan.
Ilya tried slow. He’s mature, controlled, and stable just like future him. He needs to show he could last, could be good, could give this Shane a good night. But the bare friction was making him feel like a virgin, and Shane’s low, encouraging moans don’t really help, either.
“You’re so beautiful like this.” Ilya couldn’t believe he said this out loud. Shane started biting his own lips.
“Here,” Shane whispered after a short silence, voice breathy. “Try this, he always bites my neck here.”
Ilya leaned down, teeth grazing the spot below his ear. Shane sounded like he was purring, pressing kisses to Ilya’s curls. “And future you… loves playing with my nipples like this.”
Shane’s cheeks flushed deeper as he said it. Shy, almost hesitant, like admitting a secret weakness. He guided Ilya’s free hand to his chest, pressing fingers to one nipple. “Pinch with your index and middle fingers… like using your knuckles, twist just a little, not too gentle. Makes both of us feel good.”
Ilya’s heart stuttered at the vulnerability. Shane was embarrassed, voice uncertain, but trusting him and teaching him how to have fun with his body. He did as told, having Shane’s hard nipple between his fingers, pinching firm, twisting sharply. Shane arched hard, gasp tearing out raw and delicious, clenching around Ilya’s cock tightly and sweetly. “Yes, fuck, like that.”
Ilya did it again, harder, both nipples. Shane’s eyes rolled back, precum leaking steadily onto his stomach.
Ilya put his hand on Shane’s shoulder and was leaning down to lick and nip Shane’s nipple in his mouth, while Shane’s hand came to grab his wrist.
“Choking too,” Shane added quietly, his pupils wide, hand guiding Ilya’s to his throat. “His fingers would always be here. Firm, but not hard. Pressure that makes me forget everything and just… lose it. He didn’t figure this out until we’re married, but you know it now.” Ilya’s fingers wrapped carefully, pressing delicate sides, controlled power. Shane’s throat worked under his palm, moaning his name, body going boneless for a second, hips bucking desperately, noises turning filthy.
Ilya’s cock throbbed deeper. Feeling and seeing Shane below him felt like heaven, but every phrase about him twisted sharply in Ilya’s brain, “He always,” “Future you loves,” “His fingers,” why is everything always about him? Jealousy hot and irrational. I’m here. Fucking you now. Me. Not him. Shane was moaning for a version of Ilya who’d earned it, who knew him inside out. He wasn’t that man yet, he knew that.
“I’m not him!” Ilya bit out, bitterness surged, raw, young, insecure. His hand came down as a sharp slap on Shane’s inner thigh, skin blooming pink. Trying to claim and mark this moment as his, and his only.
Shane’s eyes flew open with surprise, then soft pain and understanding. He stilled completely, hands gentle on Ilya’s arms, easing the grip on his throat.
“Hey—no, wait,” Shane said, voice tender, pulling Ilya down chest to chest, their foreheads touching, one hand stroking his back slowly, grounding his breath. “I’m sorry, Ilya. That was stupid. This is you right now. Just you and me.” His eyes searched Ilya’s, full of regret.
“Everything he knows, everything he does, everything he is, it all started with you. You who braved the risk and took the chance, who I fell in love with since our first night. You might not know it yet, but you made my life so much better.” Ilya’s throat burned, eyes stinging. Shane’s breath warm on his face, “You make me feel complete and I love all of you.”
Ilya’s control snapped. He wanted to be cool and mature, but his thrusts got erratic and pleasure built up fast. He could feel Shane clenching around him, letting him come first. He hated how it felt like Shane was taking care of him in bed too. His goal was to please and impress this Shane.
“Sorry—” he gasped, embarrassed heat flooding. Too soon, too young, too hard on himself and too overwhelmed with this scary love thing. He came inside Shane, spilling deep with broken, wet moans.
Ilya collapsed on Shane, face buried in his neck, taking in Shane’s smell to calm himself down, shame creeping. But Shane didn’t let him spiral.
The flip happened so fast. Shane’s hands strong on his waist, rolling them effortlessly, and suddenly Ilya was on his back, staring up at this older version of the man he’d spent two nights together but much more time pretending and persuading himself not to want.
Shane reached for the nightstand, slid on his glasses slowly, deliberately, like it was nothing. But Ilya opened his mouth and felt so speechless, those dark frames settling on Shane’s nose, making his eyes sharper, more intense, the way his hair fell messy and his freckles looked so charming.
Ilya’s breath caught hard, cock twitching helplessly even though he’d just come. “Fuck, your glasses—” it was too much, too perfect, like Shane knew exactly what would get to him.
Shane grinned, small and knowing, and sank down again, taking him deeply in one smooth roll of his hips, “I knew you’d like this. I’d love to remind you I’m yours.” Ilya’s oversensitive cock dragged against hot, slick walls, and the sensation punched the air from his lungs. His hips jerked involuntarily, hands flying to Shane’s waist, gripping bruising tight just to anchor himself. This was gonna be the death of him. Actual death. Heart exploding, body on fire, Shane rode him like he owned every inch of him.
Shane’s relentless, grinding down with purpose on every drop, chasing his own pleasure without holding back. He was enjoying it so much, head tipped back, mouth open in broken moans, hands braced on Ilya’s chest for leverage, fingers digging in as he rolled his hips in tight circles that dragged perfectly over Ilya’s cock. It felt so much, almost too much, but he’s so hard. Sweat beaded on Shane’s throat, trickled down his chest, and his thighs flexed powerfully around Ilya’s hips, driving the pace harder, faster, like he couldn’t get enough.
Ilya’s body screamed. He wanted to be tough, wanted to take it like the cool, experienced guy he pretended to be on the ice and in this house with Shane, but he couldn’t. Every thrust down sent shocks through him, cock throbbing raw inside Shane’s heat, building pressure he wasn’t ready for again so soon. His breaths came ragged, hips twitching, trying to match but failing.
Shane didn’t slow down, he’s lost in riding it, moans turning louder, more desperate, body chasing release. Ilya’s vision blurred at the edges, pleasure and pain sending him mixed signals in his brain. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Hands flew to cover his face, hiding the flush of embarrassment that burned his cheeks. “Shane, please…” Voice broken, he had never learned what English words to use in this situation, he could barely think in Russian right now. He hated for Shane to see him like this. “Slow, little slower. Please. Too… sensitive now. Can’t… ah… Shane I promise will be fine in minutes. Just… slow now, please...”
Shane stilled immediately, hips freezing mid-drop, breath catching. “Sorry—god, I’m so sorry, Ilya.” he murmured, eyes full of concern, hands gentle on Ilya’s wrists, pulling them away from his face.
Shane leaned down slowly, sinking his hips gently now, kissing Ilya’s neck, lips trailing to shoulders, nipping lightly, soothing with tongue. “I’m sorry, baby. Got carried away. You feel too good.”
Ilya’s chest heaved, relief flooding as the intensity eased to something bearable. Shane’s mouth on his skin grounded him, kisses feather-light, apologetic.
Shane slid two fingers between Ilya’s lips as he started grinding on Ilya again, slow, asking. Ilya opened up obediently, tongue licking and swirling between and around them, grateful for the distraction. Shane pushed his fingers deeper, closer to Ilya’s throat, and Ilya’s tongue reached as much as he could, lapping at the base, tasting the saltiness of Shane’s palm, sucking like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.
He hasn’t kissed me properly on lips since the couch, Ilya thought all of a sudden, he tried to swallow but this thought is so sharp it’s making his throat tight. Needed mouth on mouth now and more, but he’s too overwhelmed still, he can’t be so needy in front of Shane.
Shane saw it. Of course he did. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t kissed each other with tongues since they got on this bed. A part of him was too focused on how their bodies worked together and forgot about it. However, a part of it felt weird to kiss this Ilya, he’s so young, he didn’t know anything yet, he woke up from their second night together and it’s more than a decade later, of course he’s scared and overwhelmed.
But he could see Ilya wanted it so badly. His eyes softened, leaning down slowly, one hand sliding to cup Ilya’s jaw. Captured his lips deep, tongue sliding in, claiming what’s his.
Ilya shattered, tasting Shane’s sweet tongue and years he hadn’t lived yet. Shane always had really soft and perfect lips.
Pleasure exploded white-hot, Ilya came again with a broken cry muffled into the kiss. Body shook uncontrollably, and the feeling in his stomach from this kiss was growing bigger and bigger until he was gasping, trembling, completely undone. Shane finally came too, painting Ilya’s stomach and chest while swallowing every sound from Ilya, kissing him through it, holding him tight, riding him gently through the aftershocks.
They collapsed together, sweat-slick, breathless. Ilya felt it in his chest and eyes so suddenly, and Shane felt wetness on his shoulder right away.
Ilya tried to hide his face in Shane’s neck.
Shane placed his hand under Ilya’s chin, forcing eye contact. “Hey. Look at me.”
Ilya resisted, ashamed.
“Please.”
Their eyes met, and Shane couldn’t help but kiss his wet lashes.
“Talk,” Shane whispered. “How do you feel?”
Ilya tried his best to use proper words, he wanted to tell Shane everything about his emotions, even through tears. “Can’t believe… this life. You. Married. Family, your parents love me like son. Career is good and not alone. Thought this will never happen to me. No love like this. Too good. Not real.”
Shane pulled him closer, their legs tangled.
“This is real,” Shane murmured into his ear. English first: “I love you. Every version. You deserve this and everything.”
Then Russian that he learned over years, saying them out loud slowly as he heard Ilya starting to sob. You are my world. I love you with all my heart. You are strong. You are worthy of love. Mine forever.
Ilya shook uncontrollably. His first time being held after sex, whispered safe, given a shoulder to cry on. Shane stroked back, kisses to his temple. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
Ilya clung to Shane, sobs quieting to shivers.
He fell asleep like that, safe in his future husband’s arms, Shane’s heartbeat steady under his ear. He needed to get a notebook and write this feeling down.
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Shane woke slowly, the way he always did when Ilya was home, gradually aware of the solid warmth pressed against his back, the heavy arm draped over his waist, lazy kisses on his shoulder blade. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft gold stripes, catching dust motes in the air, and the room smelled like them: sweat, tears, and sex.
But something felt different. He was holding Ilya in his arms when they fell asleep last night, but he woke up being big-spooned. The arm around him was familiar, the way it tightened possessively the second Shane stirred, the low growl against his neck, the subtle shift in weight that pinned him gently to the mattress.
This wasn’t rookie Ilya.
This was his Ilya. Older, broader, knows his favorite morning smoothie recipes, the body against him carrying the comfortable bulk of years together. This Ilya who knew exactly how to hold him, how to make him feel owned and safe and worshipped.
His husband is back. “Ilya,” he breathed, rolling over to face him.
His Ilya’s eyes were already open, a little wild around the edges, smirking. He looked like he’d been watching Shane sleep, waiting quietly.
“Missed you,” Ilya said, voice rough with sleep and something else. Relief, maybe, or lingering possessiveness. He didn’t wait for an answer. Just surged forward, mouth crashing against Shane’s in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate claim. Hands fisted in Shane’s hair, deepening it until Shane was gasping into his mouth, body arching.
Shane laughed breathlessly when they broke apart, foreheads still pressed together. “God, you’re back.”
Ilya nipped his bottom lip hard enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue. “Finally.” His accent thicker than usual, the way it got when emotions ran high. “Woke up yesterday to… little terrified kitten version of you. Cute. But not my Shane.”
Shane’s cheeks heated. He could still feel echoes of last night, the raw vulnerability in rookie Ilya’s eyes, the way he’d broken apart under Shane’s hands, the confessions whispered with their foreheads pressed together. “Your rookie self was… yeah. Terrified. But sweet. So sweet.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed, but there was real heat behind them. Shane knew he was jealous. “Details,” he demanded, hand sliding down Shane’s back to grip his ass, pulling him closer until their hips aligned, both half-hard already. “Every interaction. From the start.”
Shane flushed deeper, but couldn’t help smiling. Ilya's jealousy was always half-theater, half-real, and entirely endearing. “You’re jealous?”
Ilya huffed, nose brushing Shane’s. “Obviously. Some past me got to fuck future you? Alone? Without me there?” He bit Shane’s jaw lightly. “Unfair. Whose dick better, hmm? He is younger but I have experience. Professionally trained by you.”
Shane snorted, shoving at his shoulder playfully, even as heat pooled low. “You’re literally jealous of yourself. Overly dramatic.”
Ilya’s eyes twinkled, but he didn’t deny it, just rolled them on top, pinning Shane’s wrists above his head with one hand, the other tracing lazy circles on his hip. “Tell me anyway. Emotional version first. Then dirty.”
Shane exhaled slowly, heart full. It’s great having his Ilya back, the familiar weight, his tease, his possessiveness, he does love everything about him. He recounted it: waking up weird, cooking together and this tension between them, reading Ilya’s notebook entries, assuring Ilya he achieved it all on and off the ice, failing to keep a careful distance on the couch, soothing rookie Ilya’s sudden nerves in the bedroom, talking Russian to him while he sobbed beautifully.
Ilya’s eyes never left Shane’s face. When Shane got to the emotional part, Ilya’s expression softened, jealousy fading to something tender.
“Puppy,” Ilya murmured, voice low. “Scared little me. Needed you.”
“Yeah,” Shane whispered. “He did. He was a good puppy. I think I broke him.”
Silence stretched warm, comfortable. Ilya’s thumb stroked Shane’s cheek, wanting to stare at his freckles till the end of time.
“Your turn,” Shane said finally, teasing. “How was your day with rookie me?”
Ilya’s smirk returned. Smug, but with a shy edge that only Shane ever saw. “Good. Scared little kitten with wide eyes, blushing, trying so hard to be cool. I was very patient with him.” His lips brushed Shane’s ear. “Sweet. Shy. But wanted it badly.”
Shane turned to kiss Ilya properly on the lips. “You fucked him?”
Ilya’s grin sharpened, eyes darkening. “Thoroughly.” His hands on Shane’s hips, rolling them deliberately so Shane felt how hard he was. “Now, please let me demonstrate what I did to him. While I tell you everything, my Shane.”