Chapter Text
Ilya has always believed that dogs are way superior to humans.
Sure, he is a little biased, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.
They are prettier and nicer—and they are smarter too.
Not only can they smell and hear much better, but they are also great judge of character.
Although that last one might not be entirely accurate. After all, they seem to like Ilya a lot. Maybe they are a little biased, too.
Ilya adores them. So much so that his entire life revolves around them now.
The job at the shelter used to be a temporary gig, just like a bunch of other side hustles he had to do, since his scholarship could hardly cover his living expenses. Ilya let go of almost all of them after he graduated, except for this one job.
There is something about the shelter that made it impossible for him to quit.
Maybe it’s because he knows what it is like to be alone and abandoned, constantly seeking affection with a hopeless heart.
Maybe he knows, deep down, that he isn’t good enough for anything else.
Maybe it’s not all that deep. Maybe he just really likes dogs.
Either way, this is Ilya’s life now.
Second Chance might not be Montreal’s biggest animal shelter, but Ilya likes to believe, in his completely objective opinion, that it is certainly the buzziest. It’s a small place with a small team, but Ilya has never met a better group of people who care about dogs than his colleagues at Second Choice.
So, when he had to quit his part-time role as an adoption aide and look for a ‘real job’ like his lecturers suggested, it wasn’t all that hard to say ‘nope’ and stay back right here.
It’s been three years, and there hasn’t been a single day of regret.
It’s kind of hard to have any regrets when you are surrounded by the sweetest creatures in the whole world.
Well, mostly sweet.
“Rex,” Ilya chides at the terrier, who thinks it’s a great idea to chew off another one of Ilya’s sneakers.
In Rex’s defence, Ilya did spill food over his shoes at the barbecue at Bood’s last night. So, he is gentler with his admonishment, a courtesy that was never granted to him when he used to act out as a child.
“Be nice to me today,” he says in soft Russian, and the puppy licks the И inked into Ilya’s palm. “It might be the day we say goodbye to each other.”
Rex is fairly new at the shelter, along with a few others who were found this winter during their seasonal rescue mission. Ilya wishes the world were a kinder place where animals—and sometimes people—don’t get kicked to the curb in the middle of winter. But he knows intimately that people can be a lot crueller than that.
It’s okay.
Rex is safe now. Ilya is, too.
“You have to be on your best behaviour,” Ilya reminds the puppy, pressing a kiss to his nose. “And don’t worry. I’ll make sure you find the perfect home.”
Ilya focuses mostly on management now, finally putting his degree to use after Wiebe promoted him last year and told him it was time for more responsibility. Ilya had been horrified at first, for he had never considered himself a responsible person, and had been shocked to find that everyone else did so. He hadn’t realised how much the team relied on him quietly, always coming to him first in case of a problem or wanting a second opinion. He thought it was because he’s brutally honest and didn’t like beating around the bush. But turns out, he’s apparently reliable.
Who’d have thought, huh?
His current project focuses on working with schools in five of Montreal’s busiest boroughs, setting up adoption days at the school premises and inviting students to volunteer at the shelter over the weekend. Wiebe loved the idea when Ilya proposed it a year ago, saying it’s exactly the kind of thing they should be doing to build community and responsibility among young people.
Working with schools is not easy. The adults and all their bureaucracy give him a bigger headache than the actual children. But it’s a long-term strategy to find enough funds for the renovations they so desperately need, so Ilya bites his tongue and deals with the endless paperwork and excuses.
But on days like today, he loves his job the most.
He gets to cover for Linda—who is on maternity leave and is currently pouting in the group chat about it—and be an adoption aide again.
He actually gets to spend time with the dogs rather than with an Excel sheet, which always puts him in a good mood.
“Ilya,” Harris, who runs all their Comms, calls from the hallway. “Your four o’clock is here.”
Ilya lets out a loud exhale and fixes Rex with a look. “Alright, buddy. Show time.”
For a place called Second Chances, Ilya is a little set on first impressions.
Hayden Pike does not make a good first impression.
For starters, he is twenty minutes late for his appointment. Not to mention that Rex barks twice upon seeing him.
“Mr Pike.” Ilya extends a hand anyway, because it is his job to do so. “Ilya Rozanov. Shelter Manager. This is Rex—short for Rek—”
“I’m sorry, I thought I got to choose the dog,” Hayden Pike interrupts, looking from Ilya to Rex with a frown.
“You do,” Ilya confirms with a nod. “But we have a priority list at the shelter, and Rex is on top. He is a good pup, yes, unless you have a habit of spilling food—”
“Man, I have four kids,” Hayden Pike snorts.
“Yes, that was in your application.” Ilya nods. “Great work, by the way.”
In Ilya’s experience, these things are filled out in a rush, often haphazardly, with zero consideration, as if they are the ones doing the shelter a favour. As if they are here to buy something and should be treated as a customer, not a potential parent looking to expand their family.
This is not a business. They are not selling a product. Ilya hates it when people think so.
So, when he receives an application that was filled out to perfection, answering every question with care and thought, he notices. Of course he does.
“My friend filled it out,” Hayden Pike says, which explains a lot. “He did mention I have four kids, right? I’m not sure a puppy is a good idea. We’ve got our hands full, man. Can’t I get like a bigger dog? One that’s a bit low maintenance?”
Ilya grits his teeth but keeps his smile intact. “Your children are very small, yes?”
“Yeah, the twins are seven. Arthur is four, and we have a toddler,” Hayden Pike answers. “My friend, he said, grown dogs are a better option for little kids since they have a calmer temperament.”
“Does your friend have a dog?”
“No.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No?”
“Then his opinion does not matter.” Ilya shrugs. “It is true, older dog is less demanding. But these are dogs from the shelter. They are not going to be high maintenance. Puppy is more work, yes. But your children will have a chance to grow up with them. More bonding. Sounds good?”
“I don’t know, man.” Hayden Pike clicks his tongue. “Why don’t I look at other options first?”
Ilya gives Rex an apologetic look and nods at the man. “Sure. Did you ask your kids what kind of dog they want?”
“Oh, they don’t really know about this.” Hayden Pike chuckles, following Ilya towards the kennels. “It’s supposed to be a surprise for the twins’ birthday in spring.”
Ilya stops walking at that.
Listen, he is not against a good surprise or anything. In fact, he often sheds a tear when people who adopt eventually post the surprise reveal videos on their social media. God knows Harris loves them since they’re good for reach.
It’s just that one man’s surprise is another man’s shock or whatever.
It’s Ilya’s job to make sure these dogs go to a loving and accepting home. It’s hard to do either when you don’t know what you’re adopting one.
“Your wife knows about this?” Ilya asks, because he must.
He’s seen this before more times than he’d like.
Countless men turning up at the shelter, hoping a cute puppy with big eyes would be enough to fix whatever mess they caused with their spouse or girlfriend.
Ilya doesn’t care for shit like that. Their goal is not just to find these dogs a home, but a loving home.
Ilya knows what it’s like to live with people who don’t really want you there, and he’ll be damned if he’ll curse any of these poor souls to a similar fate.
“Why does that matter?” Hayden Pike frowns now.
“Your application said you have a job that makes you travel a lot,” Ilya explains. “So, your wife takes care of your children? Do you have maid? Family support?”
“What are you, C3P?” the man makes a face.
“Taking care of four children is a lot,” Ilya says carefully. “Maybe Mrs Pike doesn’t want dog on top of that.”
“I think I know what my wife wants.” Hayden Pike scoffs.
“Raising four little children with no help?” Ilya says, because sometimes he really can’t help himself.
“Excuse me??” Hayden Pike gapes at him.
“I think you should come back with your wife,” Ilya advises the man. “You can bring the kids, too. It will be good to make, er, informed decision.”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise!” the man says incredulously.
“Better to have safe home than surprise reveal.” Ilya shrugs. “We have to do what is best for our dogs, Mr Pike. Come back with your family, okay?”
Hayden Pike glares at him for a full minute before scoffing loudly. “I don’t think I’ll come back at all.”
The man leaves without another word, muttering under his breath about unprofessional service and cocky attitudes.
Ilya ignores all of it and turns to Rex with a huff. “You were too good for him anyway.”
“Meanie, slob or creep?”
Ilya, pocketing his wallet and keys, snorts at Galina. “He didn’t ask the wife.”
“Ah.” Galina smiles, as if she considers it better than the other three options. “Good. Means there is still a chance he might come around.”
Galina is their resident vet and has been working at the shelter for a lot longer than Ilya. She is, truth be told, the main reason why Ilya chose this place. It isn’t simply because she is one of the very few people in Montreal whom he gets to talk to in his mother tongue. She just has that effect on people.
“You try to see the good in everyone,” Ilya says, and it is indeed a complaint.
“We are literally called Second Chances,” Galina reminds him. “Luca left his phone charger again.”
“Ah,” Ilya says, grabbing it from her. “I can drop it off on my way.”
“The weather is pretty bad tonight.”
“I’m Russian.”
“So am I, little shit.” Galina swats his shoulder. “He can pick it up tomorrow.”
“But what if his phone dies and he has panic attack?” Ilya demands. “I will drop it off. I’m going to Stanley’s anyway.”
“Big Friday night plans?” Galina grins.
“Big, yes.” Ilya grins, already thinking of new ways to terrorise an old friend, and gives her a little salute. “See you on Monday.”
“Ilyusha.”
Ilya turns around and tilts his head. “Yes?”
“I’m glad you stood your ground today,” Galina tells him.
“Rex deserves a home where he is loved just the way he is.” Ilya shrugs. Although he wonders if Rex will have to wait a long time for that to happen. Maybe Ilya can keep him company. He’s been waiting a long time, too.
“As do we all.” Galina smiles. “See you Monday.”
Stanley’s is a fusion restaurant in Saint-Henri, which went viral a couple of years ago for its hot servers.
Ilya, who had been one of said hot servers, had retired when he started working full-time at the shelter.
Except for Wyatt, who is the only one polite and patient enough to work full-time in the service industry, everyone else is a struggling student like Ilya used to be.
Struggling, but very hot.
Ilya misses working here.
It wasn’t fulfilling by means, but he laughed the most when he worked here. He doesn’t think he’s laughed a lot lately. Although he doubts his place of work has anything to do with it. There is only so much you can blame your environment for, right?
But still, this place means a lot to him.
He might not have found his purpose here, but he did find his people.
“Ilya!” Bood exclaims with a wide grin when Ilya stalks straight into the kitchen. “You finally remembered us, huh?”
“I saw you last night, Boodram. No need to be dramatic.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Where is Luca?”
“Man, you play favourites.” Young, one of the new servers, pouts as he picks up an order from Bood. “He’s out back, by the way. Smoke break.”
Ilya frowns at that. He might need to have a chat with the kid.
Luca is an exchange student like him, although Ilya is certain they both came to Canada for very different reasons. He interns at the shelter, working closely with Galina since he aspires to be a vet one day, too. But like most exchange students, internships don’t pay for half your bills—or your video games. Ilya had recommended Stanley’s to the boy, since he knew Luca would enjoy it here.
Besides, their whole brand is hot servers. Luca fits right in.
“Rozanov.”
Ilya, who is munching on the cookie Bood sweetly passed him, turns around and grins broadly. “Hunter.”
“What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?” the man puts his hands on his hips.
“This is the restaurant with the hot servers, no?” Ilya hums. “I came to fulfil quota.”
Ilya has known Scott Hunter since the very first day he stepped into Stanley’s. The other man, who had just gotten promoted to General Manager, had interviewed Ilya and had been exasperated with his attitude by the second question.
He still hired Ilya, though. Of course he did. Charming servers, who happen to be hot, are the backbone of any restaurant.
“Came to be a pain in my ass, more like,” Hunter mumbles.
“Ah, Christopher not doing the job? You need me too?” Ilya asks.
“Fuck off.” Hunter glares at him. “If you are going to stand here and run your mouth, you might as well make yourself useful. We have a full house and can use the help.”
“Say please.” Ilya hums because rage-baiting Scott Hunter is one of his favourite hobbies.
“Fuck you,” Hunter says, which is the same thing if you speak his language. “Get an apron.”
“We ran out, boss,” Holmberg announces as he walks past them with empty dishes. “Dillon spilt sauce on the last one.”
Hunter groans into a hand. “You people are going to send me to an early grave.”
“Hunter, relax.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “I don’t need apron. Customer will be distracted by my handsome face anyway.”
“Man, I wish I had your confidence.” Holmberg cackles and taps Hunter on the shoulder. “What do we do about table 14?”
“God, he’s still there?” Hunter groans.
“You are very stressed today,” Ilya observes.
“I have date night with Kip, and I don’t want to be late again,” Hunter huffs. “The weather is fucked, so our reservations are getting delayed, and that’s going to cause chaos. And the flowers I ordered for Kip still haven’t arrived, and there is some rando hogging the table, and as if that’s not enough, my sleep paralysis demon turned up at my workplace today.”
“Please, you love me,” Ilya tells him, blowing a kiss. “Tell Wyatt to stagger reservations for now. We will be okay. I can check on flowers and keep them in your office. One of the kids can deal with the rando. And Kip will understand if you are late. He is a very nice guy. Wouldn’t have married your old ass otherwise.”
“Fuck you,” Hunter says, softly this time. “And fine. I’ll talk to Wyatt and the kids. Thanks, Rozanov.”
“Sorry, can you say that again?”
“Get to work!”
Ilya winks at Bood, who shakes his head fondly at the familiar shenanigans and gets to work, immediately making himself available at a table for an elderly couple. "Hello, I'm Ilya. I will be your server this evening."
He falls into the rhythm pretty easily.
He should probably head home soon, though, since he already gave Luca the charger and got a big hug in return.
But he doesn't leave. Not just yet.
He's always had trouble leaving places. Except for Russia. That one, he could not leave fast enough.
So, he stays back and handles more tables. He takes a couple of orders, serves a few more, before he heads out for a smoke break and finds some of the young servers huddling there in the freezing cold.
“Are you planning Hunter’s downfall?” Ilya pouts. “Without me?”
“Man, be serious for a second.” LaPointe chuckles, passing him the cigarette easily.
“You are right, he will die of old age soon.” Ilya takes a drag.
“Scott asked one of us to handle table 14.” Luca winces.
“Creep?” Ilya frowns.
Ilya is familiar with those. It’s bound to happen in a place with young, hot servers. Hunter is surprisingly efficient at handling those creeps. Ilya supposes he is good for something.
“No.” Young tuts. “Poor guy got stood up.”
“Ah.” Ilya clicks his tongue. “Just say goodbye and good luck.”
“Not it!” Holmberg all but shouts, putting his hands up. “What if he starts crying?”
“What if he starts ranting about his sad love life?” Young asks in horror, as if somehow that’s worse.
“He looks really sad,” Luca says quietly. “Like a sad kitten.”
Ilya rolls his eyes at that. “Weaklings. All of you. I will handle the sad kitten. Tell Hunter I am your hero.”
“We love you, Ilya!” All of them shout at the same time, and Ilya knows this was a pre-planned, so he flips them off and makes his way back into the restaurant, cigarette forgotten for now. He puts in an order for cheesy garlic bread to-go for the poor bastard and makes his way to the corner table at the front.
“Delivery for Scott Hunter?”
“Ah,” Ilya says to the guy at the door and grabs the bouquet quickly. “I will sign, thank you.”
He grabs the flowers and looks for Hunter, who should’ve left five minutes ago. Wyatt has that look on his face that says the evening crowd is trickling in now, quickly filling up the tables. The lights up ahead flicker for a moment before completely going out, which is a regular occurrence in the neighbourhood when the weather gets this bad.
The patrons let out soft gasps of surprise, and several team members audibly curse in annoyance.
Okay, one thing at a time.
Ilya calls for the security at the front to check on the generator first. Now they just need to clear any tables they can.
Ilya will handle the sad kitten first and deal with Hunter’s failing marriage after.
He walks over to the corner table and clears his throat, hoping the guy indeed doesn’t start crying on him.
Ilya has never been stood up in his life. But he has been left behind, and it’s a pretty shit feeling.
Maybe the garlic bread will help. He should check with the kitchen next.
“Hello.” Ilya clears his throat carefully. “I’m very sorry but—”
The patrons make a whooping noise and cheer loudly when the generator gets turned on, and everything comes back up. The soft yellow light above the table flickers to life, and the man finally looks up at Ilya’s voice.
Oh.
Oh, this is not a sad kitten.
This is some kind of angel. This is some kind of heavenly being with the most beautiful face Ilya has ever seen.
Soft brown eyes, wet and filled to the brim, blink at him slowly. The pinkest lips in Montreal, caught in between the two front teeth, tremor just so slightly as the man lets out a soft gasp.
And those freckles.
God really took his time with this one, didn’t he? Placing each one carefully, not an inch closer or further, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Yes?” the man says carefully.
“Hello,” Ilya repeats, still kind of stuck on those freckles.
The man stares back, too, unblinking. Ilya has no pretty freckles to stare at, the man does it anyway—his widened eyes travelling from Ilya’s face, to the flowers in his hand, to the tattoo on his palm.
“Hi?” the man says.
“Hi,” Ilya says—again.
Oh god, he's said hello three times now.
He should literally say anything else. His name, probably. His phone number, preferably.
“Hi,” Ilya says again, because he can’t help it. “I am—”
“Are you Nick?” the man asks, and it comes out as a breathless sound.
It's beautiful.
It's hopeful.
Like the man desperately wants Ilya to be Nick.
Ah.
Ah, shit.
He should probably go and get Hunter to deal with this.
Ilya slides into the booth and holds out his hand.
“Hi. Yes. I am Nick. Sorry for being late.”