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Ilya exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that never quite made it all the way out.
The house felt too full and too empty at the same time.
Too many bodies. Too many voices. Not enough air.
His entire Centaur team had taken over the living room, plus a few of his Boston guys, and somehow, of course, Hayden Pike was there too.
Controllers were being thrown, insults flying louder than the game audio, someone yelling about a missed shot like it was Game 7.
Normal.
It should’ve felt normal.
It didn’t.
Ilya stood off to the side by the wide windows of their house in Ottawa, arms loosely crossed, staring out at the quiet neighborhood.
Porch lights glowed soft against the dark, trees barely moving in the night air—everything outside calm, untouched.
Inside?
Chaos.
And somewhere in the reflection staring back at him, he barely recognized himself.
Because that version of him, the one in the glass, wasn’t supposed to exist out here in the open.
That version of him had just been dragged into the spotlight in a thirty-second clip.
A stupid, careless, impossible-to-take-back clip.
A FanMail video.
To Brad, who the hell knows who is except Ilya wanted to know and teach the son….
His jaw ticked at the thought.
Outed to the entire league.
To fans.
To media.
To people who had no business knowing anything about him and Shane—about them—like it was just another piece of content to pass around.
His phone buzzed again on the counter behind him.
Then again.
Then again.
He didn’t turn.
Didn’t reach for it.
Didn’t need to.
He already knew.
Notifications.
Mentions.
Messages.
Headlines.
Teammates from other teams pretending to check in while really fishing for details.
Reporters circling like vultures.
Fallout.
That’s all it was now.
The fallout of eleven years collapsing into something public, messy, uncontrollable.
Another buzz.
Longer this time.
Persistent.
Ilya’s shoulders tightened slightly, but he stayed where he was, eyes still locked on the reflection instead of the world outside it.
Because if he turned—
If he picked up that phone—
It would all become real in a way he wasn’t ready to deal with yet.
And for one more second—
Just one—
He wanted to pretend the only thing that existed was the noise behind him… and the silence in front of him.
________________________________________
“Ilya.”
His name cut through the noise—low, careful, like it was testing the air before it fully stepped into the room.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Didn’t turn.
Like if he stayed facing the window just a little longer, he could delay whatever came next.
“Ilyuskha.”
That did it.
That word—soft, familiar, his—hit somewhere deep enough that it nearly unraveled him on the spot.
Ilya turned.
Shane stood in the doorway, shoulders drawn tight, hands buried in his pockets like he was holding himself together by force.
There was hesitation in the way he stood there, like he didn’t know if he should come closer or keep his distance.
Like he didn’t know where he fit anymore.
That, more than the video, more than the headlines, set something sharp off in Ilya’s chest.
Shane let out a quiet breath, gaze dropping for a second before lifting again.
“Yeah,” he said, voice uneven despite the attempt to keep it steady.
“Because I don’t know if I’m…” he gestured vaguely, not just at the room but at everything, the noise, the people, the situation, “coming or going right now.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened instantly.
Before Shane could shift his weight, before he could retreat even half a step, Ilya crossed the room in two long strides, closing the distance like it was nothing.
Like there had never been space between them to begin with.
“We’re getting through this,” Ilya said, low and certain, each word grounded. “Don’t start acting like that changed overnight.”
Shane swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet his—searching, uncertain.
“It’s not just us anymore,” he said quietly. “It’s… viral. It’s everywhere.”
There was no defensiveness in it. No accusation.
Just reality.
And maybe a little fear.
Ilya didn’t think—he just reached out, his hand sliding to the back of Shane’s neck, fingers curling there, steady and firm, anchoring him in place.
Anchoring both of them.
“солнышко,” he murmured, voice softening without losing its weight. Sunshine.
Shane’s breath hitched at that—barely noticeable, but Ilya felt it.
“Look at me.”
It wasn’t a command.
Not really.
But Shane obeyed anyway, lifting his gaze fully this time, no hesitation.
Good.
“I don’t care who saw it,” Ilya said, quieter now, but somehow stronger. “I don’t care who’s talking, or what they think they understand.”
His thumb brushed lightly along Shane’s jaw, grounding, deliberate.
“You are not something I hide from.”
A beat.
“Not now. Not ever again.”
Shane’s expression cracked under the weight of it—fear still there, but tangled now with something else. Relief. Disbelief. Hope he didn’t quite trust yet.
“You mean that?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Ilya exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving him as he held Shane there, steady, real.
“Я тебя люблю, мой любовь,” he said softly. I love you, my love.
Shane’s eyes closed for a second, like he needed to physically absorb it—like hearing it out loud, like this, in the middle of everything, was almost too much.
When he opened them again, they were glassy.
“God,” he murmured, a shaky laugh breaking through, “you really waited until the entire world found out to get soft on me, huh?”
A faint smirk tugged at Ilya’s mouth.
“Timing’s not my strength.”
Shane huffed out a quiet breath, something lighter slipping into his expression despite everything.
“Clearly.”
________________________________________
The living room burst back to life, loud and relentless, like nothing in the world had shifted.
Wyatt Hayes was on his feet now, one sock sliding on the hardwood as he shouted about tequila shots like it was a game plan that needed full team buy-in.
Zane Boodram was right beside him, clapping, laughing, hyping it up with the same intensity he brought to the ice, feeding off the chaos.
Evan Dykstra had completely lost it, bent over at the waist, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the arm of the couch, tears in his eyes over something no one else seemed to fully catch.
Someone yelled from the floor. A controller hit a cushion. Glass clinked against glass.
Voices overlapped, rising and falling, familiar and chaotic in a way that should have felt grounding.
It didn’t.
Ilya stood just outside of it, like there was a thin barrier between him and the rest of the room that no one else could see.
His eyes moved without thinking, scanning the noise, the movement, the people, until they stopped.
Hayden Pike.
Leaning back against the wall, one shoulder pressed into it, posture loose like this was just another night.
His phone was still in his hand, screen lit, thumb hovering like he was deciding whether to scroll or type or record again.
The same phone.
The same video.
The same moment that had blown everything wide open.
Something in Ilya’s chest tightened, sharp and immediate.
His jaw set, muscles locking before he could even think about it.
Shane noticed.
Of course he did.
“Hey,” Shane said softly, voice low enough that it barely cut through the noise, but close enough that it reached him anyway.
Ilya did not answer. His gaze stayed fixed across the room, locked on Hayden like he could rewind the last twenty four hours if he stared hard enough.
“Don’t,” Shane added, quieter this time. Not pushing. Not commanding. Just asking.
A beat passed. Maybe two.
“He didn’t know,” Shane said, steady and calm even if there was something careful underneath it. “He’s an idiot, yeah, but he didn’t know.”
That pulled Ilya back just enough to break the line of sight.
His eyes dropped for a second, then shifted away, landing somewhere neutral, anywhere but there. The tension did not leave his body. It just settled deeper.
“I know,” he muttered, voice low, rough at the edges. “I don’t blame him. He has been a good friend to us”
And he meant it.
That did not make it easier.
A short pause followed, heavy and quiet despite the noise around them.
“I want Brad’s number,” he added.
That part came out sharper, edged with something he did not bother to hide.
Shane let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but softer than that. Not amused. Not really. Just aware.
He stepped closer, closing the space between them completely this time.
His hand slid lightly along Ilya’s wrist, fingers warm, steady, a grounding touch that cut through the tension better than anything else in the room.
“Baby,” Shane said, softer now, the word landing with intention. Not teasing. Not casual. A reminder.
Ilya’s eyes flicked back to him.
“We’re still here,” Shane said quietly. “That’s what matters.”
The room carried on behind them, loud and messy and alive, but the edges of it dulled for a second, like the volume had dropped just enough to let that sink in.
Ilya let out a slow breath, shoulders loosening by a fraction.
Shane was right.
They were still here.
Still standing in the middle of it.
Still together.
That had not changed.
None of this had taken that away.
It just made everything else louder.
More exposed.
More complicated.
The anger was still there, sitting just under the surface, steady and unresolved.
It did not disappear.
But it shifted.
Because Shane’s hand was still on his wrist.
Because he was still looking at him like they were the only two people in the room that mattered.
And because no matter how messy this got, no matter how public it became,
they had not lost each other.
That counted for something.
Even if Ilya was still, very much, pissed.
________________________________________
“Okay, boys, let’s go. I cannot stay inside anymore.”
Ilya’s voice cut clean through the room, firm enough that it didn’t sound like a suggestion.
Before anyone could question it, he reached for Shane and pulled him up from the couch beside him, fingers lacing around his wrist with quiet certainty.
The noise died almost instantly.
Controllers paused mid-game. Conversations dropped off. Even the music in the background felt like it dulled for a second.
Everyone froze.
A few looks were exchanged. A few brows lifted.
Lucas Haas blinked, half sitting up from where he had been sprawled on the floor.
“Where are we going?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure if this was serious or just another one of Ilya’s sudden decisions.
Ilya didn’t hesitate.
“Out.”
That was it.
No explanation. No debate.
Just a decision.
Because staying in that house, surrounded by noise and people and everything left unsaid, felt like suffocating.
The walls were closing in with every notification, every glance, every moment that no one quite knew how to address.
He needed air.
Movement.
Something that wasn’t heavy with meaning.
Something that didn’t remind him of the video every second.
“Alright,” someone muttered.
“Yeah, let’s go,” someone else added, already reaching for their jacket.
And just like that, the room shifted again. Energy snapped back into place, but different now. Focused. Moving.
Phones came out. Rides got called. People argued over who was getting in which car.
After a chaotic few minutes of overlapping Uber requests, missed drivers, and shouted directions, they finally piled out and headed toward downtown Ottawa.
Cold air hit Ilya’s face the second they stepped outside.
It helped.
A little.
The city was alive in a way the house wasn’t. Streetlights glowing, cars passing, people moving without knowing or caring what had just happened in his life.
For a few seconds, he could pretend he was just another guy heading out with his team.
Not someone whose entire private life had just gone public.
They walked until someone pointed ahead.
“Bar?”
It wasn’t fancy. No line. No hesitation.
Good enough.
They went in.
The second the door shut behind them, the world shifted.
The bar was loud, almost overwhelming.
Lights low and flashing, music pounding through the floor, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest.
Bodies packed close together, voices blending into one constant hum.
No space to think.
No space to overanalyze.
No space for silence.
Exactly what they needed.
Or, more accurately, exactly what Ilya decided they needed.
________________________________________
“Karaoke!” Nick Chouinard shouted, like he had just unlocked the best idea anyone had ever had.
The reaction was immediate.
“No,” Shane said, not even a second of hesitation, his answer sharp and automatic.
“Yes,” Wyatt Hayes fired back just as fast, already turning toward the stage area like it was a done deal.
Shane shook his head, already backing up a step. “I will actually leave.”
That only made it worse.
“You won’t,” Zane Boodram said with a grin, like he had been waiting for that exact response.
Ilya barely had time to process what was happening before hands were on him.
Evan Dykstra grabbed one arm. Lucas Haas got the other. Elijah Young pushed from behind.
“oh no,” Ilya muttered under his breath, already trying to dig his heels in, resisting on instinct more than anything else.
It did not matter.
“Not happening,” D laughed, tightening his grip as they started dragging him forward through the crowd.
The bar noise swelled around them as they moved, people shouting, laughing, music pounding, but now it all felt directed at him.
Great.
Perfect.
Exactly what he did not need.
Across the room, Cliff Marleau had already started chanting something unintelligible but enthusiastic, banging his hand against the table like it was a rally cry.
Victor St-Simon had his phone up, recording without shame, grin wide like this was about to be the best thing he had seen all night.
Conor Connors was filming too, barely keeping the camera steady because he was laughing.
And Hayden Pike----
Still filming.
Of course he was.
Ilya twisted slightly as they pulled him forward, just enough to lock eyes with him.
The look he gave him was flat, direct, and promised consequences later.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just certain.
Hayden met it for a second.
Then shrugged like there was nothing he could do about it now.
Which, to be fair, there wasn’t.
________________________________________
The stage lights hit him the second he stepped up, harsh and blinding, washing everything out in a way that made it impossible to hide.
Too bright.
Too open.
Too exposed.
For a split second, Ilya felt like every eye in the place was on him, even the ones that weren’t.
The noise of the bar faded just enough to leave him standing there, alone with the weight of it.
The mic felt off in his hand. Too heavy. Too unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong there, like he didn’t belong there.
This was a mistake.
He could still walk off.
No one would stop him. They would laugh, maybe boo a little, but it would pass.
He could step down, disappear back into the crowd, into the noise, into something safer.
His grip shifted slightly on the mic.
He almost did it.
Then he looked up.
Really looked.
And found him.
Shane.
Standing just beyond the crowd, arms crossed tight across his chest like he was holding himself together. His posture was guarded, but his eyes gave him away.
Locked on Ilya.
Focused in a way that cut through everything else in the room.
Not amused. Not teasing. Not distracted.
Grounded.
Like Ilya was the only thing keeping him steady in the middle of everything that had just happened.
That stopped everything.
The noise. The doubt. The instinct to walk away.
All of it.
Because suddenly it was not about the crowd or the lights or the fact that half the room was recording.
It was about him.
And the way he was looking at Ilya like this mattered.
Like he mattered.
Ilya’s grip on the mic steadied.
And just like that,
he didn’t walk off.
________________________________________
He scrolled through the catalogue, thumb dragging slower than usual, eyes barely registering most of the titles flashing past.
Too many options.
Too much noise.
None of it right.
Then he found it.
Of course he did.
A small, almost disbelieving breath left him as he tapped it, like some part of him knew exactly what he was doing and another part was still catching up.
He took a deep breath, shoulders rising, chest tight, then steadied himself and brought the mic closer.
“We watched The Karate Kid Part II the other night, at team event” he said.
A ripple of confused laughter moved through the bar.
Fair.
“Yeah, I know,” he added, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’m too sexy for that movie.”
That earned him a few louder laughs, a whistle from somewhere near the back, the tension in the room easing just enough.
Good.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in it.
“There’s a song in it,” he continued, voice shifting, losing the edge of humor, settling into something quieter, heavier. “And I think… it kind of captures what I’m going through right now.”
His throat tightened slightly.
He swallowed once, hard.
“I’ve known him since I was seventeen,” he said, voice dropping lower now, more real, stripped of anything performative.
“And he’s been the man I fell in love with since the moment I looked up and saw freckles in a dingy parking lot in Saskatchewan.”
That landed.
The bar didn’t go silent, not completely, but the noise softened, attention narrowing.
His eyes never left Shane.
“This is for you, солнышко.”
The track started.
Soft at first, then building.
And Ilya didn’t look away.
“Tonight it’s very clear as we’re both lyin’ here…” his voice came out rough at first, then steadier, settling into the melody, “there’s so many things I want to say…”
His gaze stayed locked on him, like nothing else existed.
“I will always love you… I would never leave you alone…”
The words hit harder out loud than they ever had in his head.
“Sometimes I just forget… say things I might regret…”
A flicker of memory. Arguments. Silence. Things he wished he could take back.
“It breaks my heart to see you cryin’…”
Shane, standing there, trying to hold it together.
“I don’t want to lose you…”
That one came out stronger.
Clearer.
Because it was the truth that sat under everything.
“I could never make it alone…”
And for the first time, saying it didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like honesty.
________________________________________
I am a man who will fight for your honor…
I’ll be the hero you’re dreamin’ of…”
This time, the words did not feel like part of a song.
They felt like something he had been carrying for years and was finally saying out loud.
Stronger. Clearer. Certain.
Across the room, Shane could not hold it in anymore.
It started small. A tightening around his eyes. His lips pressing together like he was trying to stay in control, trying not to let it show in front of everyone.
It did not work.
His expression gave way, piece by piece. His jaw clenched, then faltered. His eyes filled, the shine impossible to hide under the dim lights of the bar.
One hand came up to his face, like he could steady himself, like he could stop it from spilling over.
But it was already there.
Ilya saw it all.
Every crack. Every second of it.
And something in his chest pulled tight.
Because he knew exactly why.
Those words were not just lyrics to him.
They were everything he had not said when he should have.
Everything he had buried, avoided, or pushed aside because it felt easier than facing it.
________________________________________
As he kept singing, the room around him started to blur.
The bar, the lights, the noise, all of it faded into the background.
What replaced it came fast and sharp.
Years of misunderstanding.
Moments that should have been simple but somehow turned complicated. Conversations that twisted before they could land right.
Silences that stretched longer than they should have because neither of them knew how to fix what had already started breaking.
Distance that had no reason to exist, but stayed anyway.
Loss.
Not loud or obvious. The quiet kind that built over time.
The kind that settled in every time Ilya chose not to speak, every time he walked away instead of staying and dealing with what was right in front of him.
Every time Shane reached for him, and he pulled back.
________________________________________
A flash hit him.
Metal. Noise. The sick drop in his stomach.
The plane mishap.
That suspended moment where everything slowed down and there was nothing left to focus on except one thought.
I did not say it enough.
Not when it mattered.
Not when he had the chance.
Not when it would have been easier.
________________________________________
And then the moments after that.
So many of them.
Turning away before Shane could say what he needed to say.
Leaving before things got too real.
Before emotions had to be answered instead of avoided.
Before Ilya had to admit how much it all meant.
Because it had always been easier to walk away.
Easier than staying and risking saying the wrong thing.
Easier than facing the possibility of losing him by getting it wrong.
________________________________________
But standing here now, under lights that made it impossible to hide, in front of people who were never supposed to see this side of him
There was nowhere to go.
No way to shut it down.
No space to pretend it did not exist.
________________________________________
His voice steadied again, stronger now, grounded in everything he had almost lost and everything still standing in front of him.
Because one thing had become painfully clear.
He was done running.
Done choosing silence.
Done leaving before things could be said.
________________________________________
“I am a man who will fight for your honor…”
This time, it was not just part of the song.
It was a promise.
One he intended to keep.
________________________________________
“We’ll live forever, knowin’ together…
That we did it all for the glory of love…”
His voice carried, steadier now, fuller, like something inside him had finally locked into place.
“You keep me standing tall… you help me through it all…”
Each word landed heavier than the last.
“I’m always strong when you’re beside me…”
Across the room, Shane Hollander didn’t move.
Didn’t look away.
“I have always needed you…”
That one almost caught in Ilya’s throat.
Because it was the truth he had spent years refusing to say out loud.
“I could never make it alone…”
________________________________________
Flash.
The memories hit harder this time. Not distant. Not softened.
Sharp. Immediate.
Arguments that started small and spiraled into something neither of them could control.
Voices raised. Words said too quickly. Words that could not be taken back.
Silence that followed. Thick. Suffocating.
________________________________________
A door closing.
Too loud in the quiet that came after.
________________________________________
Christmas.
The lights were still on. Decorations still up. Everything looked warm, like it was supposed to mean something.
It didn’t.
“I think you should go,” Ilya had said.
Flat. Controlled. Detached.
Like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.
Like he wasn’t watching something break right in front of him.
Shane had stood there for a second too long.
Waiting.
Hoping.
For Ilya to take it back.
He didn’t.
________________________________________
Flash.
Dark room. Curtains drawn.
Days blending together.
Ilya sitting alone, staring at nothing, the weight in his chest too heavy to explain and too complicated to admit.
Depression that he buried instead of naming.
Pain he masked with silence.
Because saying it out loud would have made it real.
Because letting Shane see it felt like too much.
________________________________________
Flash.
Moments where Shane tried.
Tried to ask. Tried to understand. Tried to get through to him.
And Ilya…
Stayed quiet.
Nodded. Deflected. Changed the subject.
Chose silence over honesty.
Every time.
Because needing someone felt like weakness.
Because depending on him felt like something he would eventually lose.
________________________________________
But standing here now
Singing words he should have said years ago
Looking at Shane like this
There was no denying it anymore.
________________________________________
“I have always needed you…”
This time, it was not just part of the song.
It was an admission.
Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
________________________________________
And across the room, Shane felt it.
Every word.
Every moment behind it.
Because he had lived it too.
________________________________________
“It’s like a knight in shining armor from a long time ago…”
The line almost made him laugh when he first picked the song.
It sounded ridiculous on paper. Over the top. Not him.
But standing there now, voice steady, eyes locked on Shane Hollander, it didn’t feel ridiculous at all.
It felt like the closest thing he had to the truth.
“Just in time I will save the day…”
Not by grand gestures. Not by perfection.
But by staying.
By not walking away this time.
By choosing him out loud.
“Take you to my castle far away…”
A flicker of something softer passed through him.
Not a literal place. Not some fantasy.
Just the idea of something safe. Something that was theirs without interference. Without cameras. Without people turning it into something it wasn’t.
A place where Shane did not have to question if he belonged.
Where Ilya did not have to pretend he did not need him.
________________________________________
“I am a man who will fight for your honor…”
His voice lifted again, stronger, grounded.
Not just emotion anymore.
Commitment.
“I’ll be the hero that you’re dreamin’ of…”
Not perfect.
Never perfect.
But present.
Consistent.
There when it mattered.
________________________________________
“We’re gonna live forever, knowin’ together…”
The words carried through the room, wrapping around something bigger than just this moment.
Years behind them.
Years ahead.
Everything they had already survived.
Everything they still could.
“That we did it all for the glory of love…”
Not the easy parts.
Not the clean parts.
The messy, complicated, painful, real parts.
The parts that almost broke them.
The parts that somehow didn’t.
________________________________________
“We’ll live forever…”
His voice softened just slightly, but it did not lose its weight.
“Knowin’ together…”
Still looking at him.
Still not looking away.
“That we did it all for the glory of love…”
This time it felt less like a lyric and more like a conclusion.
A quiet understanding.
That everything they had gone through, every mistake, every silence, every fight
had led them here.
Standing in a crowded bar.
In front of people who were never supposed to see this.
And choosing each other anyway.
________________________________________
And for the first time in a long time
Ilya did not feel like he was chasing something.
He felt like he had finally caught it.
________________________________________
The guys absolutely lost it.
Wyatt Hayes was shouting something incoherent.
Zane Boodram was pounding the table like it was a game winner.
Evan Dykstra was yelling, laughing, completely gone.
Voices stacked on top of each other. Cheers. Whistles. Pure chaos.
But it all blurred.
Faded.
Like it was happening in another room.
________________________________________
The last note rang out.
The music cut.
The bar exploded.
Applause hit like a wave. Loud. Sharp. Immediate.
Ilya barely heard any of it.
________________________________________
His heart was pounding too hard, drowning everything else out.
He did not hesitate.
He stepped off the stage and moved straight through the crowd, not slowing, not looking at anyone else.
Only one direction.
Only one person.
His north star.
Shane Hollander.
________________________________________
“Babe—” Shane started, voice breaking before he could even finish.
Ilya did not let him.
Did not give him the space to overthink it.
He closed the distance in one step, one hand coming up to Shane’s jaw, steady and firm, the other gripping the front of his shirt.
And then he kissed him.
Not careful.
Not hidden.
Not something quick he could pretend didn’t happen.
It was everything he had held back.
Everything he had not said.
Everything he had almost lost.
He kissed him like he was done hiding.
Like there was no version of the world anymore where he would ever step away from this again.
________________________________________
For a second, the noise disappeared completely.
Just them.
Just breath and warmth and eleven years collapsing into one undeniable moment.
________________________________________
When they finally pulled apart, Shane was smiling through it.
Eyes red. Breath uneven. Completely wrecked and trying not to show it.
“You’re insane,” he whispered, voice rough.
A small smirk pulled at Ilya’s mouth as he leaned in, resting his forehead against Shane’s.
“Ты мой,” he murmured softly. You’re mine.
Shane let out a shaky breath that turned into a quiet laugh.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed to hear it again.
“Yeah.”
Shane nudged his nose lightly against Ilya’s, grounding himself in it.
“Good,” he said. “Because you’re mine too.”
________________________________________
Around them, the bar was still chaos.
Cheers had not died down. People were shouting. Phones were still up, recording every second like it was something they would replay later.
Victor St-Simon still had his camera out.
Cliff Marleau was yelling like it was a championship moment.
Conor Connors was trying to get a better angle.
And Hayden Pike
Still recording.
Still capturing every second.
________________________________________
Somewhere out there, the video was already spreading.
Already being clipped, reposted, dissected.
Twitter was exploding. Opinions forming instantly. Sides being taken just as fast.
People who supported them. People who didn’t. People who thought they understood something they had never lived.
It was loud.
It was messy.
It was out of their control.
________________________________________
But standing there, forehead pressed to Shane’s, none of it mattered.
Not the video.
Not the headlines.
Not the commentary that would keep coming whether they wanted it to or not.
________________________________________
Because the scandal was never the video.
It was never the exposure.
It was never the world finding out.
________________________________________
It was them.
What they had been through.
What they had almost lost.
What they chose, over and over again, even when it was hard.
________________________________________
And now
for the first time
there was nothing left to hide.
No space left for silence.
No reason to step back.
________________________________________
They were still here.
Still standing.
Still choosing each other.
Out loud.