Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Established Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Healthy Relationships, good communication, Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Secret Relationship, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Time Skips, One Shot, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Whipped, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, POV Third Person Omniscient, Dialogue Light, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Feels, One True Pairing, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-28 Words: 5,192 Chapters: 1/1

We Keep This Love In A Photograph

Summary

Entering an actual relationship near the very beginning of when they first meet, Shane is still paranoid about pictures of them getting shared so Ilya buys him a Polaroid camera instead to document their relationship all the way back from 2012. The only problem is that he never intended for Yuna to find the album.
---
“I know we can’t have pictures of each other, but I still want them,” he confessed, still fiddling with Shane’s hair for his own comfort. “And I thought maybe...if they were just ours, you might be okay with it.”  

Shane stayed silent, eyes glancing between his tense expression and the bag as he pulled out a Polaroid camera. His thumb was gripping it so hard he thought it might crack, his anxiety manifesting physically.  

“Ilya...” He paused, finally sitting up a bit more. Enough that Ilya had no choice but to let his hand fall away from his hair or else, it would seem too clingy.  

“Is fine, if you don’t like idea,” he clarified, even though the thought of being rejected terrified him more than he could possibly express. “Was just a thought—” 

“I like it,” Shane interjected before he could spin himself into a tizzy he would deny ever feeling in the first place.  

Notes

So, for timeline confusion- this is basically Shane and Ilya getting their shit together in 2012 and staying in a committed relationship since then but maintaining it as a secret.

It started with a picture.  

Ilya didn’t really think about why he was taking it, just thought Shane’s side profile looked especially sharp one night as he was staring out of the hotel window deep in thought. He was always deep in thought, it seemed.  

Until he realized Ilya had taken his picture, that was.  

Then, in an instant he was nearly tackling him for the phone. Reaching to grab it, he tripped, pushing Ilya backwards onto the creaking bed as he tried to pull it away from him in vain.  

“You can’t have that!” he exclaimed, still trying to get the phone away from him.  

“Is one picture,” Ilya responded, brows furrowed in confusion about why he was making such a big deal out of it. “You look handsome in it.” 

The compliment did very little to dissuade him from eventually prying it out of Ilya’s hands, clutching it in his own as he unlocked it and deleted the photo before thinking twice about it. He blew out a breath, shoving it back into his chest and getting back up.  

“It doesn’t matter if it’s just one; you can’t have any pictures of me,” he muttered, voice softer than it was a few seconds ago. Almost remorseful in a way.  

Ilya moved to the edge of the bed, staring at him. “You do not trust me?” he asked, his tone level but filled with something akin to hurt. As much of it as someone like him could show, at least.  

Shane turned, his mouth open like he was planning to refute the accusation immediately but didn’t. It stayed like that for a moment before he swallowed. “It’s not you, it’s just...the risk in general,” he admitted. “Your phone could get hacked or stolen or you could just open it to show someone something and they could see it.”  

He couldn’t think of a single lie either of them would be able to tell that could explain why Ilya had a picture of him in the same hotel room late at night. Especially when he was still shirtless. As good as it made him feel inside to think he might want that memory in some way, Shane couldn’t allow him to document it. Not when it could socially ruin both of them.  

Ilya watched him glance away again, as though he felt guilty for setting the boundary. He left his phone on the bed, standing up and walking over to him. “Look at me,” he insisted, voice equally soft as his lifted his chin. “Is that the truth? Only reason you don’t want me taking your picture?” 

Part of him, for a second, wondered if it was for another reason. Shame, maybe. Mistrust. He wouldn’t be overly surprised if Hollander thought he would use them as blackmail or show them off as some trophy. Neither were true, but whatever was going on between them was so new and fragile that neither of them fully trusted each other yet, and they both knew it.  

He frowned for a moment, nodding almost instantly. “Of course it is,” he muttered, staring at the harsh expression in his eyes. Still abrasive, still arrogant, still in control. Of the situation, of himself, of Shane too.  

It felt weirdly comforting, in a way, giving Ilya so much power when he spent the majority of his life vying to take charge in order to stay calm. Alarmingly natural in a way that made his skin burn and his heart ache. He hated it and yet also couldn’t get enough, all at once.  

“Okay,” Ilya stated monosyllabically, sliding his hand over his cheek to pull him into a kiss that quickly deepened for several seconds before he pulled away.  

“Okay, what?” he whispered, mind nearly blank except for thoughts of him. The feeling of his hand, the scent of him, the way his lips were so soft when they weren’t hurling insults.  

“I won’t take any pictures of you,” he clarified, sliding his hand down to Shane’s shoulder, just squeezing it until he nearly melted. “Even if I want them.”  

He was pretty sure no one would blame him for wanting to document it, this, them. Whatever it was. They saw each other so rarely, spent such little time together. All he had were recordings of Shane’s interviews and pictures of him on social media.  Nothing personal, nothing that screamed he understood the man in a way no one else did.  

“Thank you,” Shane mumbled, breathing out a second sigh of relief. This one caused by the knowledge that he hadn’t just pushed Ilya away. “I know it’s stupid, I just...it-”  

He couldn’t really explain how it would affect him. Not properly. He didn’t know how to verbalize the feeling he got in his chest, the heaviness he felt and the way his heart constricted while his pulse sped up each time he got anxious.  

Ilya squeezed his shoulder again. “Shh, is fine,” he assured him, shaking his head. “No worrying tonight, just...us.”  

He saw Shane swallow harshly and dug his thumb into his skin softly almost like a massage. Anything to get him to stop living in his head and instead come back to the moment, to the little room they were locked in together until morning tore them apart again. 

“Just us,” Shane repeated, nodding slowly as his eyes drifted back down to his lips for a moment.  

He hummed, stepping backwards and pulling Shane with him towards the bed. “Exactly,” he stated gently, taking another step and another until he sat on the edge of the mattress.  

Pulling him down into his lap, Ilya wrapped his arms around him, through with words as he pressed their lips together for a kiss he didn’t intend to pull away from this time. This was already more words than he was used to exchanging.  

He only did it because...he liked to. Liked soothing Shane’s mind, liked hearing his voice, liked the moments that felt like they were more than two people seeking comfort but actually had a connection with each other.  

Shane pushed him back again, but they both knew it was because Ilya allowed it, falling onto his back as he pulled him closer, panting against his lips gently. He rolled him over with ease, taking control again as he bent to pepper kisses over his neck, pulling a few pleasant sighs from his lips. 

┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈

It was nearly two and a half months later when they saw each other again.  

Ilya had spent nearly every single day of them feeling more anxious than he had ever been before. If he was honest, he knew it was because he had been contemplating doing something that was potentially very foolish. Something he shouldn’t have even contemplated, let alone gone through with.  

But lying in bed with Shane, he couldn’t help it. He wanted to memorize it. Not in his mind but committed to a real photo. The kind he had promised he would never take for both of their sakes.  

“Are you asleep?” he whispered, staring down as him as Shane rested his head against his chest.  

He hummed softly. “No,” he murmured, voice sleepy despite pretending otherwise. He couldn’t help it; the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms were too enticing not to drift a little bit.  

Ilya hesitated for a moment, fussing with his hair gently. “I...have something for you,” he muttered quietly like he was trying to preserve the moment and his own dignity. “If you want it.” 

Shane forced himself to open his eyes, blinking tired up at him. “What?” he wondered.  

He always studied his face in a way that always made Ilya feel more exposed than anyone ever could. Like he wasn’t just looking at him naked, he was looking further than that. Into his mind or his soul, maybe. That’s how it felt, at least.  

Despite the voice in his head telling him not to, Ilya sat up slightly. He was careful not to jostle Shane or force him to move too much, just trying to reach for the bag he had dropped beside the bed when he entered the room. He pulled it off the ground, fingers lingering on the zipper as he tugged it open.  

“I still...” he trailed off for a moment, throat working as he thought of the right words. “I know we can’t have pictures of each other, but I still want them,” he confessed, his other hand still fiddling with Shane’s hair for his own comfort. “And I thought maybe...if they were just ours, you might be okay with it.”  

Shane stayed silent, eyes glancing between his tense expression and the bag as he pulled out a Polaroid camera. His thumb was gripping it so hard he thought it might crack, his anxiety manifesting physically.  

“Ilya...” He paused, finally sitting up a bit more. Enough that Ilya had no choice but to let his hand fall away from his hair or else, it would seem too clingy.  

“Is fine, if you don’t like idea,” he clarified, even though the thought of being rejected terrified him more than he could possibly express. “Was just a thought—” 

“I like it,” Shane interjected before he could spin himself into a tizzy he would deny ever feeling in the first place.  

Ilya’s breathing physically stopped, like as badly as being rejected hurt it was what he was anticipating. “You do?” he wondered, voice tight with apprehension.  

He nodded, shifting even closer until their shoulders were touching. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I was actually sort of thinking about last time, wishing maybe I had let you keep that picture. Wished I...had one of you.” 

He admitted it with equal hesitation, but the moment he said it, Ilya’s breath came back to his lungs. His shoulders slowly deflated in relief, frightened eyes softening into something resembling content. Or something stronger.  

“You want picture of me?” he mumbled, almost sounding surprised.  

Lots of people wanted it, news outlets and people he met on the street. But he never heard Shane mention it; never considered he might want to reminisce when they were apart the same way he did.  

Shane nodded slowly. “Well...yeah,” he whispered, giving a half-hearted shrug like he was almost embarrassed to admit it. “Is that okay?” 

He nodded back, not saying anything. He just stared, wondering if Shane ever felt a fraction as vulnerable when he looked at him as he felt under his gaze.  

The blankets rustled as Shane reached to gently take the camera from him. It was safer than their phones, safer than digital too. All they had to do was keep the film out of the wrong hands and that couldn’t be terribly difficult, he thought.  

He fussed with the camera for a moment, turning it towards Ilya and peering at him through the lense at the top. He thought it might have been the lighting or his imagination that brought the tinge of pink on his cheeks but couldn’t be sure.  

Clicking the button, it shuttered and the sound echoed in the quiet room.  

Shane turned a bit to lean back against Ilya, resting on his arm as he put the camera down for a moment. Waiting for the film to develop, he could feel his hand back in his hair again, fussing with it absent-mindedly.  

The camera produced a small piece of film and he pulled it out, waving it for a moment before holding it up between them. Ilya leaned in a bit, until his breath was on Shane’s skin. “Am very photogenic,” he mused quietly, trying to break some of the tension. 

Shane huffed silently, staring at the picture's slight blurriness probably caused by his unsteady hands when taking it. “I like it,” he whispered earnestly. “Can I keep it?”  

“Keep the whole camera,” he told him, dipping his head to press a kiss against his shoulder. “I bought two of them.”  

The confession slipped out, but it didn’t feel as humiliating as he thought it would to say it. If anything, it almost felt like a relief. He wanted pictures. Of Shane, of them together. Of whatever this situation was because deep down he knew this wasn’t going to end in a few months or a year or two.  

And he knew in the future; he’d want this moment back. Even if he couldn’t document it like most people could, he still wanted some version of it. An arguably more authentic, rawer version, if anything.  

Everyone had a phone; anyone could snap a dozen shots of the person they cared about. They had to be careful with theirs and pick the moments of importance. The only problem was that it felt like most of them.  

┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈

A few months turned into season after season of sneaking around, which might have driven most people and players crazy. Shane never grew tired of it, though. Hiding, sure. But who he was doing it with and for, never.  

He just learned to savor time differently than other couples had to. He learned that every late night and early morning meant something, another day they could have gotten sick of the secrecy or each other and called it quits. They never did. Not when distance kept them apart, nor when circumstances made things difficult.  

Ilya’s Polaroids had progressed to a point neither of them had ever foreseen it getting to, either. To the point they both had an abundance of them, some of each other and some together. Some romantic ones where he was getting a kiss on the cheek, others more casual like Ilya at his stove in the morning.  

He liked all of them, though. Remembered when and where each was taken, even after years of collecting them.  

Ilya watched over a mug of coffee as Shane sorted them, the dozens perhaps even hundreds of pictures sprawled across the kitchen counter. “I like that one,” he admitted, nudging the edge of one with his finger.  

Shane glanced at it, lips tugging into a smile at the picture Ilya took of him when he sound asleep with his arms wrapped around him. “I didn’t want you to leave,” he murmured, shrugging.   

He hummed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I missed plane for you,” he reminded him, not sounding the slightest bit upset over it. “Actually, have done that several times.”  

Shane pulled the picture towards him, putting it into the timeline he was trying to build. There was so many pictures it was taking him longer than he thought, but he managed to nestle it between two others taken a few weeks apart.  

He pointed at one where they were both awake. The room looked almost glowing; snow piled high outside to the point Ilya got stuck in Montreal. He swore the bed had never felt more comfortable than it did that morning. 

“I like your bedhead,” he mused quietly. “You always look more...like you.” Less like the intimidating version that people thought of and more like the version Shane got to see. 

Ilya pushed another one towards him as he spotted it out of the corner of his eyes. “Is annoying,” he replied, brushing a hand through his current hair that was still a mess from the deep sleep he’d woken up from a few minutes ago.  

Shane wrinkled his nose, clearly disagreeing as he kept putting the pictures into order. The fact that Ilya could piece it together almost as well wasn’t lost on him. He had their relationship memorized too, even if he tried to deny it.  

“Do you think this is...that I’m too sentimental?” he wondered after a minute. “Scrapbooking is like, for old people.” Or boring ones.  

That’s what Ilya always called him, and he had tried for a long time to prove him wrong, but maybe this whole thing was just proving exactly why he was right about it.  

The only reason it had taken him nearly a decade to start scrapbooking at all was because he was so defensive over them. He kept them safe and hidden, like a part of him he didn’t dare try to trivialize with double-sided tape or colorful backgrounds.  

He shrugged, setting his coffee down and leaning over the counter. “I am sentimental too, yes?” he reminded him. “I like my pictures in a box, so I can pull them out at random and remember things in different order each time. You like structure, always have.”  

He glanced up at that, the response somehow not actually answering the question he had asked and yet also putting him at ease. “I just want to have it chronological, like...proof,” he mumbled, furrowing his eyebrows at his own phrasing which didn’t quite make as much sense as he hoped. “It’s not just moments, they connect.”  

Ilya nodded in agreement, looking back down at the counter and trying to find the next one in the timeline. “Here,” he muttered, pushing it towards him. “Flowers on Valentines Day since we were nowhere near each other.” 

Shane slid it into place, remembering how shocked he had been when there were flowers delivered to his apartment and a card signed by Lily their fourth year knowing each other. That was probably the most classically romantic thing Ilya had ever done during their rather strange relationship at that point. Of course, he took a Polaroid of it.  

“Wish I had been smart enough to send some to you, too,” he admitted, tugging his lips to the side. “Or chocolate or something.” He had the following year, though. And the year after that and the year after that.  

“I was not expecting them back then,” Ilya assured him, still digging through the pictures. “Just wanted to make you smile during horrid holiday.” He felt that way about any holiday they couldn’t spend together, though.  

“I did,” Shane told him, biting back a smile that threatened to escape just thinking about it. He glanced at the clock on the stove, heart sinking a bit. “Help me sort for another hour and I’ll drive you to airport, okay?”  

He nodded, continuing to sift through the pictures so Shane could finally put them in an album the way he knew he wanted to do for many years. It was fear that held him back, not of the relationship but reality. They often lived inside a little bubble of solace, just the two of them. Anything outside of it felt a bit frightening, like it might pop the fragile safety they were always enveloped in.  

┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈

Yuna was a good house guest. Always. Regardless of whether she was staying at a friend's house or a distant relative, she always did her best to be polite and keep things clean. That extended to her own son’s apartment, too.  

The fact that she and David were staying there at all was only because they decided to have their house repainted and foolishly forgot it meant they wouldn’t be able to sleep there until it dried. It would only be two days until the fumes went away, but it was still forty-eight hours where she could be helpful.  

That meant while her son and husband were out, she spent the time wiping down the windows that hadn’t been cleaned in a while and dusting one of his bookshelves that got neglected with how often he travelled. Most of them were, anyway. She noticed one that didn’t have nearly as much dust on it. None, in fact.  

It wasn’t a book, though. More of an album if the size was any indication. She had a few at home with Shane’s baby pictures and her own childhood memories recorded but didn’t realize he had taken to the hobby himself.  

If David was there, he would tell her not to snoop. To respect their son's privacy. Luckily, he was at the grocery store with Shane, picking up some things for dinner and there was no one around to tell her not to open the album.  

Sitting down on the couch, she pulled her legs up and cracked it open, her expression blanking at the very first page she saw.  

There was only one picture, a slightly blurry Polaroid in the center of the page of a younger Ilya Rozanov with blankets pulled up to his hips and his blonde hair brighter than the lighting in the room. The hotel, it looked like. Above it, there was a date written in black marker. 10.23.12.  

Yuna’s hands stilled, staring at the page for what felt like an eternity. Far longer than it actually was. She was sure there was a reasonable explanation for why her son had that picture, why it was so old, why he chose to put it in a scrapbook of all places. She just...couldn’t think of any.  

Without even realizing it, her hands moved on autopilot and flipped the page. The next one had a few more pictures, still of Rozanov. He was standing on the balcony of some hotel; a cigarette perched between his fingers as he held it to his lips. He was at the built-in bar, pouring himself a drink without even acknowledging the camera. When he was looking at it, there was a smirk on his lips, head tilted arrogantly. 11.17.12.  

She glanced at the other one and her gaze raked over the pictures of her son, instead. He was laughing about something while he packed a bag, the kind that looked like the one he brought to every overnight game. Him trying to grab the camera, making the picture turn out blurrier than necessary. 12.20.12.  

Yuna wasn’t sure when she realized her mouth was open, but after a while she managed to close it, swallowing harshly. These weren’t the kind of pictures someone could find online or even take at games; they were...intimate.  

She flipped the page, eyes darting to the date before the photos this time. 2.6.13. They weren’t taken in a hotel room this time. It was Shane’s apartment; she could tell. She recognized the curtains he bought so many years ago and only recently replaced them.  

Rozanov was throwing something at the camera in one, a shirt or a shoe maybe. Something moving too fast for the film to capture properly. In another, he looked half asleep, squinting at the flash on the camera while his curls sprawled out on a pillow case. The clock in the back of the picture said it was nearly six in the morning when it was taken.  

Yuna sucked in a deep breath, turning the page immediately feeling something in her stomach churn as she saw a picture of her son in Rozanov’s jersey flipping the camera off. He looked a little annoyed, but his lips were tugged up into a fond smile anyway. Like wearing it wasn’t the punishment it should have been. 3.19.13.  

She looked at the next page, which wasn’t taken in her son’s apartment but some house she didn’t recognize. Rozanov was in the living room, shoveling Chinese food into his mouth with a hockey game on the television in the back. There was also one of Shane, sleeping as he laid his head in Rozanov’s lap. 10.2.13.  

The next page they were back in Shane’s apartment. There was a picture of Rozanov putting some sort of product in his hair while standing in the bathroom oblivious to the camera; he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. Another one had him asleep in a car, head resting on the seat belt like a makeshift pillow. 11.18.13.  

Yuna paused, looking away for a moment while she closed her eyes. The images flashed through her mind like they were ingraining themselves there before she could even process them or understand what they meant. She felt a lump growing in her throat and forced herself to look back at the album, flipping the page.  

2.14.14. Valentines' day and there was a picture of flowers sitting on Shane’s kitchen counter.  

3.4.14. More photos in the house she assumed belonged to Rozanov. Her son was doing yoga in the living room and trying on a Raiders sweatshirt that looked slightly too big on him.  

10.8.14. Shane was asleep as Rozanov took a picture of them cuddling, including himself in it. He was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee not fifteen minutes later with an omelet on the plate in front of him.  

2.4.15. There was an even bigger bouquet of flowers on Shane’s counter. Not to mention a matching picture of a vase in Rozanov’s house, complete with a card in front of it that had a love note and a Russian sign off.  

Yuna blinked back tears as the pages just kept flipping. Fucking years' worth of photos. Years worth of memories and stolen moments at strange hours and different places. Whenever and wherever they could get them.  

She couldn’t take it, couldn’t see the time skips during their breaks and the little domestic moments where Rozanov was in the kitchen of her son’s apartment, standing by the stove cooking breakfast. It made her chest ache and her mind swim with feelings too confusing to even start sorting through.  

Skipping at least twenty-five, if not thirty pages, she wound up in the year 2019. There were six pages worth of photos of them at the cottage. Rozanov in the lake and trying to bounce a soccer ball on his knee, Shane sleeping in the hammock outside and cooking burgers on the grill.  

And they just kept going. 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023. Yuna shouldn’t have been shocked by it, not at that point anyway. But she was. She felt a flood of surprise each time she turned a page and saw another photo of Ilya Rozanov with his arms around her son or his lips on his cheek as Shane scrunched his nose.  

They got brighter. The pictures and the expressions in them. They took more and more as the years progressed compared to the earlier seasons where there were just a few here and there. She flipped to last year, where Rozanov was dead asleep in her son’s bed and hogging the entire thing.  

Her eyes drifted to a picture of Shane on the couch, taping his stick with a look of concentration. Another with them doing a puzzle that Rozanov somehow still looked competitive while searching for a piece in the box. Shane reading in bed with his glasses on. Rozanov grimacing over a bottle of bad vodka. Shane pulling his jogging shoes on by the front door.  

Back and forth, they oscillated like a game of table tennis, taking pictures of each other or taking photos together. Lots in bed, some outside in remote locations, a few in the car that were usually around the same time every year 

Sniffling to herself, Yuna skipped to the last page that had been filled. Her eyes blurred at the black marker scratched across the top of it. It was dated last month. There was a picture of them cuddling on the couch, both nearly asleep in it but kissing anyway.  

She reached up, wiping her eyes as she realized she had started crying. The tears slid down her cheeks as she stared at the picture, throat tight with emotion. She forced herself to flip back to the first page, to the singular picture of Rozanov in that hotel room with his features still boyish and the film blurry.  

2012, she reminded herself. Long over a decade ago. That’s how long this had been going on, how long her son had been sneaking around and capturing memories on Polaroids as some sort of evidence of the love he had found and never shared with anyone else.  

Yuna closed the album, doubling over on the couch as she put her hands in her face and just allowed herself to sob. To feel grief for the years he lied and pretended to be someone he wasn’t, for the years she could have known him properly and loved him unconditionally if she had been allowed to.  

She wasn’t sure how long she was crying, only that it was interrupted by the door unlocking. 

Yuna looked up, face streaked with tears and eyes red from the sobbing. She saw the immediate look of concern on husband and son’s face. But more so, she saw the way Shane’s eyes fell to the album in her lap and instantly widened in terror.  

“Mom, I- what are you doing with that?” he asked dropping the bag of groceries on the table by the door and crossing the apartment. “That- I was supposed to put that away while you were here, I never meant for you to find it, it’s just—”  

His attempts to explain were cut short his mom rising to her feet and wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. Shane tensed, hesitating before hugging her back. She squeezed even harder, like every emotion that had swelled within her for the past forty-five minutes were all escaping at once.  

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, her voice cracking through more tears.  

“I- I just...I didn’t wanna disappoint you,” he admitted, feeling his own eyes grow wet.  

Yuna let out a shaky breath, pulling away from him reluctantly as she shook her head firmly. “No, no you could never disappoint us,” she assured him, looking at her son and seeing, for the first time, who he really was.  

The exact same boy she raised, with so much kindness and affection to give, receiving it back in equal measure. Her heart couldn’t take it, chest physically aching with regret and love.  

“Really?” Shane questioned, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands.  

She nodded. “God, no,” she insisted. “We just want you to be happy.” 

He swallowed the lump that settled in his throat. “I am,” he promised her. “I’m so happy, mom.” 

Yuna knew that already. She could see it on his face, stronger some weeks than others. Now she finally figured out why. Those were the weeks Rozanov...Ilya was around. It was all the small moments of monotony that brought out his smile and made him more talkative around everyone.  

“I saw you happy,” she muttered, still trying to get her tears to stop. It was hard, though, when she felt like the ground might give out underneath her feet. “That...is a very thorough scrapbook,” she commented with a slight huff of astonishment.  

Yuna turned to reach for it, only to find the spot on the coffee table was empty. Her husband had picked it up when they weren’t looking, too busy trying to stay grounded by squeezing Shane until she nearly bruised his ribs.  

David furrowed his eyebrows, flipping it open to the first page. He lowered it almost immediately, blinking in confusion at his son. “Why do you have a half-naked picture of Ilya Rozanov in a photo-album?” he asked.