Shane froze as the sound of tires crunching on the driveway reached him.
“Uh…” he muttered quietly, more to himself than anyone else. Hayden and JJ glanced up but didn’t say anything.
He stood, heart hammering, and moved down the hallway toward the front door. His hand hovered over the handle, but before he could twist it, the door opened from the outside.
Rozanov was there, tall and composed, hair slightly messy, eyes scanning the hallway before settling on Shane. That smirk—the one Shane had been replaying in his head for weeks—was faint but unmistakable.
“Privet,” Rozanov said, calm and measured. His accent was soft but noticeable, smooth, precise. “I hope I am not too early.”
Shane froze, blinked, and finally managed, “Uh… hey.”
Rozanov’s gaze lingered for a moment. “I understand I will be sharing a room with captain of team.”
Shane stepped aside, letting Rozanov move past him. Up close, he couldn’t help but notice details he hadn’t before. His jawline was sharper than he remembered, hair falling perfectly just enough to look effortless, and those green eyes—way too piercing.
Wait. Did he always look this good?
Shane immediately shook his head, willing the thought away. No. Stop. Focus.
Rozanov had set his bag down near the stairs and now looked back at Shane, calm and patient. “I brought some things from Boston. I hope is ok.”
“Uh… yeah, sure,” Shane said, his voice tighter than intended. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly very aware of how close they were.
Rozanov tilted his head slightly, as if reading Shane’s sudden hesitation, then smiled faintly—again that smirk, subtle, confident, infuriating.
Shane took a small step back, putting some space between them. Focus. Don’t… don’t get distracted.
Shane cleared his throat. “Uh… I'll introduce you to some of the guys. Come on.”
Rozanov’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before following Shane in his footsteps, scanning the hallway with deliberate calm. His eyes traced the walls, noting the staircase, the framed photos along the hallway, the faint light spilling from the kitchen at the far end. He moved forward with measured steps, taking in the layout, the little details as if he were already assessing the space for himself.
Shane felt his chest tighten, every careful movement drawing his attention. He noticed the way Rozanov’s shoulders didn’t tense, the way his posture was relaxed but confident, the faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
By the time they reached the kitchen, Shane had to remind himself to breathe.
He stepped aside, gesturing towards the room. “Uh… here’s the kitchen,” he said, voice a little tighter than intended.
Oh God.. I really hope Rozanov didn't notice the voice crack.
Hayden and JJ were leaning against the counters, casual but alert. Hayden gave a small nod, JJ a grin. Shane swallowed and introduced them. “Guys, this is Ilya Rozanov.”
Rozanov inclined his head politely to each of them. “Ilya. Is good to meet you.” His voice was calm, measured, carrying that quiet confidence Shane had replayed in his head for the last 24 hours.
Hayden straightened slightly, giving a nod that was more automatic than warm. “Hey. Glad you made it,” he said, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed but relaxed.
JJ smirked faintly, pushing off from where he’d been leaning. “JJ. You’ll be hearing from me plenty, so…” His grin stretched just long enough to make it clear he was teasing, though not aggressively.
Rozanov’s eyes followed them, calm and steady, taking in the kitchen and the boys without rush. He glanced at the fridge, the counter cluttered with mugs, the small stack of sports magazines by the sink, then back at Shane, who could feel the intensity in his gaze even as it was quiet, polite, nothing overt.
Shane shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to keep his own nerves in check. “Coach said you’d be here this morning,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Da,” Rozanov replied smoothly. “The timing worked out. The house… Is larger than I expected.” His eyes flicked around again, not critically, just noting, absorbing.
Hayden leaned on the counter a little more, uncrossing his arms, his expression neutral but attentive. “Yeah, it’s… decent. Not much for privacy, but you’ll get used to it.”
JJ snorted softly. “If you survive our snoring, you’ll be fine.”
Rozanov inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the humor without smiling. “I am used to… challenges,” he said with a shit eating grin.
Shane couldn’t help the brief flush rising in his chest at the way Rozanov said it. Keep it together, he told himself, forcing a small cough. “Uh... so… would you like a tour now, or after you get your things settled?”
Rozanov’s gaze drifted toward the hallway where his bag sat, then back at Shane. “After,” he said. “I will put my things away first.”
Shane nodded, stepping aside toward the hallway. “Right. Makes sense. We’ll go after that.”
Rozanov gave Hayden and JJ a warm nod before following Shane quietly, every step measured, his presence calm but precise. Shane led the way down the short hallway, the hum of the kitchen fading behind them, and he could feel Rozanov just a step behind him, silent but aware.
The bag Rozanov had left against the wall was big and overstuffed, already hinting at the kind of person he was. Shane’s fingers itched to reach out, maybe rearrange it slightly, but he forced himself to stay still.
Shane glanced at it, then back at Rozanov, noticing how effortlessly he carried himself even when he wasn’t moving—calm, controlled, almost untouchable. His green eyes flicked briefly toward Shane, holding him there for a moment, and Shane had to force himself to look away.
Focus. Just focus on making it up the stairs.
Shane stepped up first, the hardwood creaking slightly under his weight. Rozanov followed, his steps precise, deliberate, matching Shane’s pace without crowding him. The morning light poured in from the windows, brushing over Rozanov in a way that made Shane’s chest tighten before he could stop himself from noticing.
The staircase opened into the top floor landing, long and narrow, lined with doors on either side. Shane led the way along the landing, his own footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet hallway. He could hear Rozanov right behind him, calm and even, the soft scrape of his sneakers against the floor.
Shane gestured toward the third door on the left. “This is my... our room—3A.” He paused, hand hovering near the handle before opening the door slowly, as if to steady himself. “You can just… put your stuff wherever you like for now.”
Rozanov moved closer, setting his bag down carefully against the wall near the door. Shane felt the pull of awareness in his chest again, the subtle way Rozanov’s presence seemed to fill the space even without trying.
“I will try to make it... what is word? Neat,” Rozanov said with a grin, his accent soft but playful. Rozanov could tell by the way Shane decorated and filled his side of the room that he would have to try very hard to make it as neat as Shane preferred. But maybe he wouldn't try at all, just to see how Shane would react.
Shane nodded, clearing his throat, and stepped aside to let him look around. The room wasn't huge but big enough to house the two of them—two twin sized beds, a desk on both sides, a large window that caught the sunlight just right. Shane couldn’t help but notice the way Rozanov’s eyes swept over everything, calm, deliberate, noting every detail as if committing it to memory.
Shane's side was a perfect reflection of his personality—organized, hockey posters hanging above the neatly made bed, a bedside table displaying his reading glasses next to a book on how to maintain a healthy sports diet. It wasn't your average frat bedroom. Shane kept it clean but cozy, reminding himself to live a little in college while also not making his autism spike.
Rozanov stepped closer to the foot of Shane’s bed, tilting his head just enough to catch the angle of the posters. “Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself, before letting his gaze slide toward the desk. He lifted a single book, flipping it open lightly, then closed it again with a quiet snap. “Very… cute,” he added, a hint of teasing in his voice that made Shane shift on his feet.
Shane tried to meet his eyes but found himself glancing down at his own hands instead. “Uh… thanks,” he muttered. “I like to keep things… predictable, I guess.”
Rozanov’s grin widened just slightly. “Predictable… good. I like. Makes figuring you out easier.” His eyes flicked toward Shane, holding him there for a second longer than necessary before moving to glance at the rest of the room. “And your side… seems comfortable. You take care of things.”
Shane’s chest tightened. Figuring me out? Maybe it's just a compliment. Nothing else. Keep it together. “Yeah, well… I mean, you know… it helps me focus.” His words sounded more defensive than he meant them to, and he mentally kicked himself.
Rozanov’s eyes flicked up, catching the subtle edge in Shane’s voice. He didn’t comment, but the faint tilt of his head, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, told Shane he’d noticed. Then, as if nothing had happened, Rozanov moved back toward where he’d set his bag, his steps deliberate, controlled.
Shane found himself staring longer than he meant to, his gaze following the slow, efficient way Rozanov placed the bag on the desk at his side. A faint grin curved Rozanov’s lips, just enough to let Shane know he’d seen the awkward tension he was radiating. Shane’s stomach twisted.
Shane shifted awkwardly, stepping over to his own bed, feeling far too aware of every movement Rozanov made. He dropped onto the edge of his neatly made bed, letting his hands rest on his knees, trying not to watch too closely.
Rozanov began unpacking, noticing the not so subtle awkwardness radiating from Shane across the room. He pulled out his clothes first—a few neatly folded t-shirts, a hoodie, and a pair of jeans—and tossed them toward the small closet built into the left wall beside the desk. They landed softly, but Shane noticed how Rozanov didn’t bother arranging them perfectly. He’s doing it on purpose, Shane realized, a flicker of irritation creeping up.
Next came the shoes. Three pairs, not fancy, but clean, solid sneakers, and a pair of boots with scuffed toes. Rozanov tossed them carelessly at the bottom of the closet. glancing at Shane with a grin that was more challenge than charm.
Shane’s jaw tightened, and he found himself shifting slightly on his bed, trying to act casual while watching Rozanov move.
Rozanov dug into the bag again, pulling out notebooks, pens, and a couple of textbooks, dropping them into the drawers of the desk. Some of the notebooks looked barely used, while others had doodles curling across the margins in a mix of Russian letters and sketches—small, messy, and personal. Shane’s eyes kept flicking to them, noticing the little details: the swirl of ink, the careful crossing out of words, the way he seemed completely at ease letting his personality show. He lifted a small photo frame, turning it in his hands before setting it neatly on the desk. Shane leaned just slightly forward, trying not to look too obvious, catching a glimpse of the photograph—a woman with beautiful blonde hair, smiling softly. Rozanov placed it next to a small, carved wooden bear, a tiny matryoshka tucked slightly behind it, and a few other personal items: a silver ring, a keychain with a Cyrillic inscription, and a small vial of what Shane assumed was perfume.
Shane couldn't help but wonder who the blond haired woman was... Was it his girlfriend, mother?
All the while, Rozanov’s grin lingered, sharp and deliberate, as if he could tell Shane’s attention was stuck on every little thing. He leaned back slightly, letting the last notebook fall into place with a casual flick of his wrist. “There,” he said, tilting his head toward Shane. “Almost finished.”
Shane forced himself to shift on his bed, trying to hide the way his stomach twisted at the way Rozanov casually dominated the space.
Rozanov noticed the glance, of course. His green eyes flicked up, catching Shane’s for a split second, and that small, teasing smirk widened just a fraction. Shane felt heat creep into his cheeks and quickly looked down at his hands, muttering something incoherent to himself as Rozanov began rearranging a few pens on the desk, humming softly under his breath in Russian. Rozanov adjusted one of the pens on the desk, then another, like he was testing how far he could go before it stopped being neat and started being… something else. His fingers hovered over the small carved bear for a second before nudging it just slightly out of alignment with the photo frame.
Shane noticed immediately. Of course he did. His eyes flicked to it, then away, then back again, like he was trying to convince himself it didn’t matter.
Rozanov caught it. Stepping away slightly to admire his work.
That faint smirk returned.
“You like things very exact, da?” he said, voice light, almost curious, but there was something underneath it. Something intentional.
Shane shifted on the bed, shoulders tightening. “I mean… yeah. It’s just easier that way.”
Rozanov hummed softly, stepping a little closer to the desk again. He straightened the bear this time, but not quite the way it had been before. Not wrong, just... different. He glanced over his shoulder, watching him. Waiting.
Shane exhaled through his nose, pushing himself up from the bed a little too quickly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he said, like he was convincing himself more than Rozanov.
Rozanov turned fully now, leaning back against the desk, arms loosely crossed. “But you want it to be.”
It wasn’t a question.
Shane’s stomach twisted. Is he... testing him?
For a second, neither of them moved. The room felt smaller again, quieter, like the air had shifted into something heavier without warning. Shane could feel Rozanov’s eyes on him, steady, unreadable, like he was figuring him out piece by piece. Don’t let him do that. Rozanov's gaze didn't leave Shane.
Shane dragged a hand through his hair, breaking the moment before it could stretch any further. “Alright, yeah... uh…” he cleared his throat, stepping forwards to make his way toward the door. “I should probably give you the rest of the tour.”
The words came out fast, just a little too fast.
Rozanov didn’t move right away. He watched Shane for a second longer, that same knowing look lingering, like he understood exactly what had just happened—and exactly why Shane was trying to end it.
Then, slowly, he pushed himself off the desk.
“Da,” he said simply. “Tour.” But the smirk didn’t leave his face.
Shane just stood there, grabbing onto the handle like it gave him something solid to focus on. Okay, you got this. Just show him the house. That’s it.
Behind him, he could hear Rozanov take a step forward.
Calm. Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world.
And like he already knew this wasn’t over.
