Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Kip Grady/Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Kip Grady/Shane Hollander

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Kip Grady

Additional Tags:

Group Sex, Nobody Is Normal About Feelings, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov, Polyamory, gentle aftercare, Consensual BDSM Elements, breath play, Dom/Sub Switch Energy

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Scrabble Is Boring Anyway

Collections:

Heated Rivalry

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-05 Words: 9,125 Chapters: 1/1

Nobody is Keeping Score

Summary

The boundaries between Scott Hunter and Ilya Rozanov begin to crack.

Notes

A very self-indulgent continuation.

All the stories in this series can be read as standalones.

“Fuck, Rozanov.”

Ilya doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Not yet you haven’t.” He glances up then. “Shame, really.”

They’re back at the cottage, the four of them scattered across the living room in various states of post-hike exhaustion. Kip is curled up in one of the leather armchairs with a book about the history of Montreal’s underground city that Shane had found for him. Shane is in the kitchen, doing something complicated with a dutch oven that smells incredible. Rosemary and lemon are in there from the smell of it. Scott is on the couch, trying very hard not to throw a pillow at Ilya’s head.

“I’m serious,” Scott says. “You posted that?”

“Posted what?” Shane calls from the kitchen.

Ilya’s mouth curves. He turns his phone around to show Scott the screen again: a photo of the four of them at the café, heads bent together over croissants, the light catching them all golden and soft. Ilya has captioned it with a single emoji. A red maple leaf.

“It’s fine,” Ilya says. “Four friends. Having coffee.”

“You tagged me.”

“You are in photo.”

“My agent is going to have questions.”

“So? You tell him truth. Four friends. Coffee. Croissants.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. The thing is, the photo is innocent. Anyone looking at it would see exactly what Ilya described: four guys grabbing breakfast. Nothing scandalous. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away as friends making the most of a rare schedule gap during their season.

But Scott knows what happened twelve hours before that photo was taken. Knows what Ilya’s mouth now tastes like (smoke and breath-warm heat). Knows the exact sound Shane makes when he comes (a soft exhale).

“And people wonder why I’ve cross-checked you into the boards so many times,” Scott says.

“Yes, you are very violent with me. Is how I know you like me.” Ilya gestures around the cottage, at Shane in the kitchen, at Kip curled up with his book. “Shane was same way. So hostile. Now look at him. Making me dinner. Because he likes me.”

“Tolerate,” Shane corrects from the kitchen. “We tolerate you.”

“He loves me,” Ilya tells Scott, utterly serene. “Cannot keep his hands off me.”

Kip snorts without looking up from his book. “To be fair, you are very pretty.”

“Thank you, Kip. You are also very pretty. Scott, tell Kip he is pretty.”

“Kip, you’re pretty,” Scott says flatly.

Kip smirks, still not looking up.

Scott exhales through his nose and lets his head fall back against the couch cushions. The late afternoon light has thickened, amber and low, as if the day is settling into itself. It pools along the floorboards and catches on the edges of things. Blanket seams, chair legs, the soft cracks in old leather. Dust hangs visible in the air, drifting through the setting sun in no particular hurry. He can hear Shane moving around the kitchen, the soft scrape of a wooden spoon against cast iron.

It’s peaceful. Dangerously so.

The couch dips as Ilya settles beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush. Scott grabs Ilya’s wrist. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

Ilya ignores it and leans closer to Scott, close enough that his breath fans over Scott’s ear. “You like it, yes? When I push? Makes you feel something. Better than being boring and controlled all the time.”

“You should be more careful about what you assume.”

“I know you still haven’t let go of my wrist.”

Scott drops it like he’s been burned. Ilya’s grin sharpens.

“I know your pulse is very fast right now,” Ilya continues, utterly unbothered. “I know you are thinking about what you want to do to shut me up, and I know you are not going to do it, because you are very proper and very controlled and very—”

Scott finally grabs a throw pillow and shoves it into Ilya’s face.

Ilya’s laughter is muffled but unmistakable. He bats the pillow away, still grinning, hair mussed, and he looks so absurdly pleased with himself that Scott doesn’t know whether to kiss him or smother him.

“Children,” Shane says from the kitchen doorway. He’s holding a wooden spoon, expression fond yet exasperated. “Dinner’s in an hour. Can you keep your hands off each other until then?”

Ilya tilts his head back against the couch, looking at Shane upside-down with that insufferable grin still in place. “No promises,” he says, and Shane’s mouth twitches despite his best efforts to look stern, the wooden spoon lowering as Kip finally sets his book aside and unfolds himself from the armchair, padding barefoot across the room to wrap his arms around Shane from behind, chin hooking over his shoulder.

Shane gives him a taste, cupping his hand beneath the spoon to catch any drips. The braising liquid is rich and dark with red wine and herbs, and a little of it escapes anyway, trailing slow down Kip’s chin. Shane’s thumb catches it before it can fall, dragging across Kip’s skin, and Kip’s lips part around the spoon.

Then Kip turns, almost instinctively, like he can feel Scott’s gaze on him.

Scott catches Kip’s eye across the room. Kip has that specific expression he gets when he’s trying not to laugh. It’s one of Scott’s favorite looks on him. The way his eyes go bright and crinkled at the corners, the way he bites his lower lip to keep the sound in.

Scott raises an eyebrow. You good?

Kip’s grin widens. He tilts his head toward Shane, who has turned back to the stove, oblivious. He’s feeding me.

I noticed.

Kip’s expression shifts into something softer, more serious. A silent check-in. This okay?

Scott answers by letting himself smile. Yeah. It’s okay.

God, Scott loves him.

The thought hits like it always does, sudden and overwhelming and true. Two years of waking up next to this man and it still catches him off guard sometimes.

Kip must see something shift in Scott’s expression, because his own softens. He untangles himself from Shane and crosses the room to wedge himself into the narrow space between Scott and the arm of the couch.

“Hi,” Kip says, quiet enough that it’s just for Scott.

“Hi.”

He tucks himself under Scott’s arm like he belongs there—which he does—and rests his head against Scott’s shoulder. His hair smells like pine and lake water and the fancy shampoo Shane keeps in the guest bathroom.

On Scott’s other side, Ilya has gone uncharacteristically quiet. Scott glances over to find him watching them with an expression that’s hard to read.

“You are very cute together,” Ilya says. But there’s something underneath the teasing now. Something warmer.

Scott snorts. “Don’t start.”

“I am not starting,” Ilya replies, affronted. He shifts, turning so he’s facing them more fully, one arm draped along the back of the couch. His fingers brush Scott’s shoulder, casual as anything. “Is nice. Watching you two.”

Kip lifts his head from Scott’s shoulder. 

Ilya’s gaze moves between them, lingering. “Last night and this morning, I am watching Scott take you apart, and I am thinking, ah. He already knows exactly what you need.”

Scott’s neck goes hot. Beside him, Kip has gone very still.

“Ilya,” Scott says. A warning.

“What? We are all adults. We can talk about sex, yes?” Ilya’s mouth curves.

“Ilya!” Shane says from the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand. His tone carries the particular weariness of a man who has been managing Ilya Rozanov for over a decade.

“What?” Ilya spreads his hands, the picture of innocence. “I am giving compliment.”

Kip makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, and presses his face into Scott’s shoulder.

“Have you ever considered using your power for good?” Scott states flatly.

“I am.” Ilya gestures at the room again, at the four of them. “You’re all still in the room with me.”

The thing is, he’s right. 

Scott lets out a slow breath and feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Kip is warm against his side, and the smell of whatever Shane’s making has filled the cottage, and Ilya is looking at him with that expression that’s ninety percent shit-disturber and ten percent something softer underneath.

“I’m going back to my book,” Kip announces. His hand finds Scott’s and squeezes.

Scott squeezes back.

The late afternoon light continues its slow slide across the floor, turning everything amber and warm. Shane disappears back into the kitchen. Ilya pulls out his phone again, probably to cause more chaos on social media, and Kip actually does return to his book about Montreal’s underground city. He brings it back to the same couch Scott and Ilya have apparently decided to share, and keeps his head on Scott’s shoulder while he reads.

Now the three of them are arranged on the couch like some kind of shape they’ve fallen into without meaning to—Kip tucked against Scott’s side with his book, Ilya sprawled at the other end with his feet in Scott’s lap like he belongs there, scrolling through his phone with the self-satisfied air of someone who knows exactly how much space he’s taking up and doesn’t care.

Scott reaches for the remote on the side table, careful not to dislodge Kip or Ilya’s feet. The TV flips on to a hockey highlights show, because of course it does. Because this is Shane Hollander’s cottage and the man has approximately three interests outside of Ilya Rozanov, and two of them are hockey-related.

On the TV, a commentator is breaking down a power play sequence, drawing lines and circles over the frozen image of players mid-stride. Scott watches with the part of his brain that never really turns off, the part that’s always analyzing positioning, timing, the geometry of the ice.

Ilya makes a dismissive sound. “Their breakout is terrible. Look at that.”

“Their defenseman is up too far,” Scott agrees, despite himself. “Leaves the weak side completely open.”

Ilya nudges Scott’s thigh with his foot. “This is why I like you. Hockey brain.”

Scott snorts. “You like me because I read the ice faster than you run your mouth.”

“Mm.” Ilya’s grin is immediate, shameless. “That too. You always know where to be.”

Kip turns a page without looking up. “You two have the weirdest flirting style.”

“Is not flirting,” Ilya says. “Is foreplay.”

Scott digs his thumb into the arch of Ilya’s foot in retaliation. Ilya yelps and tries to yank his foot back, but Scott holds on, pressing harder until Ilya is squirming and laughing and swearing at him in Russian.

“Children!” Shane calls from the kitchen.

“Hunter is torturing me!”

“Good.”

Ilya gasps, mock-offended. “You are supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of whoever keeps you quiet long enough for me to finish this sauce.”

Kip snickers. Scott releases Ilya’s foot, and Ilya retaliates by shoving his cold toes under Scott’s thigh.

“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Later, maybe.” Ilya wiggles his toes. “If you are lucky.”

“I really do hate you.”

“You keep saying this. And yet.” Ilya gestures at his feet, still firmly lodged under Scott’s thigh. “You are keeping me warm.”

Scott considers dumping Ilya’s feet onto the floor, and yet, he doesn’t.

Kip hums noncommittally, turning another page. “He has a point.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side with the best view.” Kip’s mouth curves against Scott’s shoulder. “Which is currently this couch.”

On the TV, the broadcast cuts to a different game. Scott watches a forward botch a breakaway, shooting wide when he had the whole net to work with.

“Look at that. No patience,” Ilya says, eyes on the TV.

“He rushed it,” Scott says. “Should’ve waited for the goalie to commit.”

Ilya’s attention drifts back to his phone. A smirk tugs at his mouth.

The cottage is warm and smells incredible. Kip is tucked against his side. Ilya’s feet are still under his thigh.

The thing is there’s something almost comfortable about Ilya’s weight across his lap. The casual presumption of it. Like Ilya looked at Scott’s carefully maintained boundaries and decided they simply didn’t apply to him. 

Which is exactly what Ilya has been doing these past couple days. And Scott keeps letting him.

“Dinner in fifteen,” Shane announces. He wipes his hands on a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His gaze sweeps over the three of them on the couch and at the comfortable tangle they’ve become.

“Need help?” Kip asks.

“You can set the table if you want.”

Kip extracts himself from Scott’s side.

Scott catches his hand before he can fully escape, tugging him down for a kiss. It’s brief and chaste, a brush of chapped lips, but Kip hums into it.

“Save my spot,” Kip murmurs against his mouth. He heads for the kitchen, and Scott watches him go.

From the kitchen comes the sound of Kip laughing at something Shane said, the clatter of plates being pulled from cabinets. The cottage smells like rosemary and red wine and the particular clean scent of lake air coming through the cracked window.

“Hey,” Ilya says.

Scott looks over.

“I am glad you came.” Ilya’s voice is uncharacteristically sincere.

Scott is wary of where this is leading as he settles back against the couch cushions. When he glances over, Ilya is watching him with an expression that’s unexpectedly soft.

It makes Scott want to look away, but he doesn’t.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, quieter now. His feet stay where they are, warm under Scott’s thigh. “Nobody is keeping score.”

Something in Scott’s chest loosens a fraction. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Ilya Rozanov, of all people, is the one who keeps finding the cracks in his armor.

Scott lets his head tip back against the couch. The ceiling is all exposed beams and warm wood. 

On the TV, the highlight reel has cycled back around to a shootout from last week. Scott listens without really hearing it. His brain keeps snagging on small details instead. Like the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen and the clink of silverware being sorted.

“You’re different than I thought,” Scott says, before he can stop himself.

“Different how?”

Scott shrugs, still looking at the ceiling. “Quieter. When you want to be.”

“Ah.” Ilya’s voice carries a smile. “You thought I was only loud and annoying?”

“I thought you were entirely loud and annoying.”

“Because I’m good at it.” Ilya shifts, settling deeper into the couch. “But is... performance, sometimes. You know?”

The thing is Scott does know. He knows exactly what it’s like to wear a version of yourself like armor.

“Right.”

When he finally looks over, Ilya is watching him with something like recognition. Like he’s seeing the same thing in Scott that Scott just admitted to seeing in him. It should feel exposing. 

Instead, it just feels like relief.

“Dinner!” Shane calls.

Ilya swings his feet off Scott’s lap and stands, stretching his arms overhead until his spine pops. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of stomach, and Scott very deliberately does not look.

(He looks. Ilya catches him looking. His grin is insufferable.)

Ilya offers his hand.

Scott takes it. Lets himself be pulled up to his feet. Ilya doesn’t let go immediately and holds on for a half-second longer than necessary, thumb brushing across Scott’s knuckles. Then he releases him and saunters toward the kitchen like nothing happened.

Scott stands there for a moment, pulse doing something complicated in his throat.

What the hell am I doing?

Scott takes the seat across from Kip, their knees bumping under the table. Kip hooks his ankle around Scott’s immediately, a grounding point of contact.

“This looks incredible,” Scott says, because it does. The short ribs are fall-apart tender, swimming in a sauce that’s dark and glossy with wine. There’s crusty bread in a basket, a salad of bitter greens, a dish of roasted root vegetables caramelized at the edges.

Ilya reaches across the table and tears off a chunk of bread before Shane has even finished sitting down, dragging it through the sauce on his plate and bringing it to his mouth. His tongue darts out to catch a drop before it falls, and he makes a sound that borders on obscene.

“Ilya,” Shane says flatly.

“What?” Ilya’s eyes are wide, innocent. The effect is ruined by the way he licks sauce from his thumb, holding Scott’s gaze the entire time. “Is very good.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

Another slow lick. “You are excellent cook.”

Under the table, Kip’s knee presses against Scott’s.

Scott refuses to give Ilya the satisfaction of a reaction. He reaches for his own bread even as heat prickles up the back of his neck.

Ilya’s mouth curves, sharp and knowing. He tears off another piece of bread, and this time when he drags it through the sauce, he maintains eye contact with Scott like it’s a challenge.

Asshole, Scott thinks.

Ilya winks, like he heard it.

Scott’s jaw tightens. He watches Ilya bring the bread to his mouth, watches that pink tongue dart out again, and something clicks into place.

“You owe me a favor,” Scott says.

The table goes quiet.

Ilya’s eyebrows climb. “Ah. You are remembering this now?”

“I’m remembering it now.”

Across from him, Shane has gone still, wine glass suspended midway to his lips.

“And what favor are you wanting?” Ilya asks. His voice has dropped into something lower, more careful. The performance stripped away.

“Stop the—” Scott gestures vaguely at Ilya’s mouth, the bread, the entire production. “That. Whatever you’re doing. Just eat like a normal person.”

For a moment, Scott thinks Ilya is going to push back, call his bluff, make him regret spending the favor on something so small.

But Ilya sets the bread down. “Fine,” he says. He picks up his fork, cuts a piece of short rib with perfect table manners, and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. “You win. I eat like boring normal person.”

“Thank God,” Shane mutters, and takes a very long sip of wine.

“Was waste of perfectly good favor,” Ilya continues. He spears a piece of short rib. “Could have asked for anything.”

Scott feels the weight of that settle between them. Ilya isn’t wrong. He could have saved it. Could have held it over Ilya’s head for weeks, months, pulled it out at the perfect moment for maximum impact.

Instead, he’d spent it on peace at a dinner table.

“Maybe,” Scott says, “I wanted you to know I’d use it for something small.”

Ilya’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Maybe,” Scott continues, holding that sharp gaze, “I wanted you to wonder what I’ll ask for next time.”

The silence that follows is charged.

Ilya’s lips part. For once, nothing comes out.

“Huh,” Kip says softly, pressing his knee harder against Scott’s under the table. “That’s hot.”

Shane chokes on his wine.

Scott’s mouth curves as he watches Ilya process that. It’s gratifying, seeing the man actually speechless for once. The moment stretches, warm and electric while they all eat.

“Okay,” Ilya says finally, setting his fork down. “Okay, Hunter.” He nods, like he’s filing information from this evening somewhere important. “I see you.”

Kip sets his wine glass down, his ankle still hooked around Scott’s under the table. “You know,” Kip says, voice endearingly light. “I think that was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone shut him up without putting something in his mouth.”

The implication lands like a live wire.

Kip smiles, all innocence. “Just an observation.”

Jesus Christ.

Scott knows what Kip is doing. He presses his ankle harder against Kip’s. A warning. Careful.

Kip’s smile only widens.

Ilya’s gaze cuts to Kip, sharp and assessing. Something shifts in his expression. It’s that same predatory focus Scott remembers from last night, when Ilya had fisted a hand in Kip’s hair and told him to open.

“You are being very brave,” Ilya says softly, “for someone who cried so pretty with my cock down his throat.”

“Ilya.” Shane sets his wine glass down. “We are not doing this over the short ribs.”

“Aw, but Shane—”

“No. I spent three hours on this braise, Ilya.” Shane gestures at the table with the kind of controlled frustration that probably serves him well in locker room speeches. “You can wait until we’ve finished eating before you start—” He waves a hand. “Whatever this is.”

“I am simply responding to Kip’s observation.”

“You’re describing sex acts at the dinner table.”

“I am being tasteful.”

“There is no tasteful way to say what you said.”

Kip has gone pink across his cheekbones, but he’s biting his lip against a smile. Scott recognizes that look, the one that means Kip is enjoying himself far too much to be sorry.

“Anyways,” Kip says, with absolutely zero contrition, “Shane, the short ribs are incredible.”

“Don’t try to distract me with compliments.”

“The sauce. What’s in it? Is that juniper?”

“It’s—” Shane stops, visibly torn between his indignation and his desire to talk about cooking. “Yes. Juniper and black pepper.”

“It’s really good,” Scott offers, because Shane looks like he needs an ally and also because it’s true.

Shane shoots him a look that’s half grateful, half suspicious. “Thank you. At least someone at this table has manners.”

“Hunter has many manners,” Ilya agrees, picking up his fork again. He takes a bite of short rib, chewing and swallowing before he continues. “Is very polite. Very controlled.” His eyes cut to Scott. “Most of the time.”

Scott refuses to take the bait.

Shane seems relieved.

“See?” Shane says. “We can have a normal dinner. We can talk about normal things in front of our guests. The food. Our hike.”

“We could talk about last night,” Ilya suggests.

“We are not talking about last night.”

“But was very good night. Scott was very impressive. You said so yourself, after, when we were—”

“Ilya.”

“—in the shower, and you were telling me how much you liked watching them—”

“Ilya.”

Ilya’s grin is unrepentant. Across the table, Kip has given up on hiding his smile and is watching Shane with open delight.

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s a gesture Scott recognizes from post-game interviews, usually deployed when a reporter asks a particularly stupid question.

Scott reaches for his wine, taking a slow sip to buy himself a moment. A part of him does want to know what Shane said in that shower. Wants to know what parts impressed him.

He sets the glass down.

“You can tell me,” Scott says. “What you liked.”

He can see Ilya’s gaze on Shane, can practically hear the I told you so forming behind those smug eyes.

Scott keeps his expression neutral, steady. The same face he wears when he’s about to take a crucial faceoff. “It’s alright. I’m asking.”

Shane’s throat works as he swallows.

“You—” Shane starts, then stops. His ears have gone red. “The way you watched him. Kip. Like you were cataloging everything. Every sound he made, every time he—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

“Keep going,” Ilya murmurs, and it’s not clear who he’s talking to.

Shane’s throat works again, his gaze fixed on the stem of his wine glass. “Every time he needed you to slow down,” he continues. “You knew. Before he even said anything. You’d… adjust. Pull back just enough, or change the angle, or—” He gestures vaguely. “It was like you knew where everyone was on the ice without looking.”

Scott feels the description land somewhere deep in his chest. He hadn’t realized Shane had been watching that closely.

“I trust him to know,” Kip says quietly. His ankle is still hooked around Scott’s under the table, but his tone has shifted away from teasing.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, and there’s no teasing in his voice now either. “Is talent, Hunter. To pay attention like that. To make someone feel safe enough to fall apart.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. He’s not used to being seen this way.

Ilya sets his fork down. The sound of metal against ceramic is loud in the sudden quiet. Scott watches Ilya’s fingers rest against the edge of his plate, deceptively relaxed. He’s seen those hands do brutal things on the ice. Seen them do tender things too, now. Cupping Shane’s jaw. Wiping tears from Kip’s cheeks.

“So,” Ilya says. His voice has dropped into something lower, more serious. He’s backlit by the window, the last of the sunset catching in his hair. “How do we want to do this?”

Scott’s brain kicks into the mode it uses on the ice. Reading the room. Assessing positions. Finding the play.

“Shane,” he says. “What do you want?”

Shane blinks, clearly not expecting to be asked first. His throat works. “I—” He stops. Tries again. “I want to watch. Is that—”

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately, soft. “Is good. You watch. With Kip.”

Scott feels those words land somewhere in his sternum.

Kip’s ankle presses harder against Scott’s, a grounding point of contact. When Scott glances at him, Kip’s eyes are wide, his lips parted. Not shocked, exactly. More like he’s watching something unfold that he’d been hoping for but hadn’t dared to expect.

Shane has gone very still in his chair. He’s watching Ilya with an expression Scott can’t quite read. Pride, maybe. And something hungry.

“Ilya,” Shane says softly. The way he says his name carries weight.

Ilya’s gaze flicks to Shane, and something passes between them. 

“I want this,” Ilya tells him. “I want to know what it feels like. With him.”

Scott thinks about every time he’s faced Ilya across a faceoff circle. The way Ilya’s eyes would narrow, calculating, looking for weakness. The way Scott would plant his feet and refuse to give ground. Years of that. Years of reading each other, anticipating each other, knowing exactly where the other would be before they got there.

And now Ilya is asking Scott to take him apart.

Scott pushes back from the table and stands. The chair scrapes against the floor.

Dinner is done.

“Come here,” Scott says.

Ilya stares at Scott’s outstretched hand. Then his gaze cuts to Shane.

Shane lifts his wine glass. “To taking chances,” he says.

Kip mirrors him without looking away from the table. The glasses clink. They drink as one. Shane sets his down and meets Ilya’s eyes. “Go on. We’ll be right behind you.”

Ilya takes Scott’s hand.

Scott feels the calluses there, the ones that match his own. Years of stick handling and fighting for the puck in corners. Of all the small violences that make up their profession. Ilya’s fingers curl around Scott’s, and this time, Scott is the one to pull him to his feet.

For a second they’re standing too close, Ilya’s chest nearly brushing Scott’s. Scott can smell the clean and citrus-sharp beneath the lingering scent of rosemary from dinner.

They move through the cottage. The stairs creak under their weight. The light through the windows has thinned to dusk, everything gone soft-edged and grey. 

Scott can hear Shane and Kip pushing back from the table, following.

The bedroom is the same one from last night. Clean white sheets, the armchair in the corner, the window cracked open to let in the cool air and the soft lap of the lake against the dock. But the light has changed, gone dusky and blue, the edges of everything gone soft. It’s that thin blue hour before full dark truly sets.

Shane settles into the armchair in the corner, pulling Kip down onto his lap. Kip goes easily, tucking himself against Shane’s chest, and Shane’s arms wrap around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Scott’s heart hammers against his ribs.

He watches them for a moment. The way Kip’s head tips back against Shane’s shoulder. The way Shane’s hand spreads across Kip’s stomach, possessive and gentle at once.

Then Scott turns to Ilya.

Ilya is standing by the bed like he owns the room, but doesn’t close the distance. What he wants, Scott realizes, is for Scott to come to him.

So Scott does.

In the corner, Shane shifts. Scott hears Kip murmur something, too low to catch, and Shane’s quiet response.

“Can I kiss you?” Scott asks.

“You are asking permission now after everything?”

“Yeah.” Scott’s thumb traces the line of Ilya’s jaw. “Guess I am.”

Something in Ilya’s expression cracks open. The bravado falling away like a mask he’s too tired to hold up anymore. He nods, just once, and Scott closes the distance between them.

The kiss is different from their first one. That had been heat and challenge, two forces crashing together. This is slower. Softer. Scott coaxes Ilya’s mouth open with patient pressure, licking him open.

Ilya makes a sound against Scott’s lips—surprise, maybe, or relief—and his hands come up to grip Scott’s biceps. Not pushing. Just holding on.

Scott walks him backward until Ilya’s knees hit the edge of the bed. He eases him down onto the mattress, following him, never breaking the kiss. Ilya’s back hits the navy comforter and Scott settles over him, one thigh slotting between Ilya’s legs.

When Scott finally pulls back, Ilya’s eyes are blown dark, his lips slick and parted. His chest is heaving.

“Good?” Scott asks.

Ilya makes a sound that’s barely a word. His hands fist in Scott’s shirt, pulling him back down. “Yes.”

Scott sits back on his heels, straddling Ilya’s thighs, and reaches for the hem of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya lifts up enough to let Scott pull it over his head, and then he’s bare from the waist up, all that golden skin on display.

Scott runs his palms down Ilya’s chest. Feels the muscles twitch under his touch. He traces the lines of Ilya’s ribs, the cut of his obliques, the trail of hair below his navel.

From the corner, Kip makes a soft sound. Scott glances over—can’t help it—and finds Kip watching with parted lips, his back pressed against Shane’s chest. Shane’s hand has slipped under the hem of Kip’s shirt, fingers splayed across his stomach.

Scott holds Kip’s gaze for a long moment. Then Ilya reaches for the fabric of his shirt. 

Scott turns back to him.

Ilya tugs his shirt up, and Scott ducks his head to let it pass. They’re skin to skin when Scott leans back down, the heat of Ilya’s chest searing against his own.

Ilya gasps. His hips roll up, seeking friction, and Scott presses down to meet him.

“There you go,” Scott murmurs against Ilya’s throat. “That’s it.”

He works his way down Ilya’s body with his mouth. Collarbone. Sternum. The flat plane of his stomach. Each kiss unhurried, mapping territory. Ilya’s hands find Scott’s hair and grip hard, not directing, just holding on.

When Scott reaches the waistband of Ilya’s jeans, he pauses. Looks up.

Ilya is staring down at him with an expression that’s almost desperate. Gone is the smirking, sharp-tongued provocateur from the dinner table. In his place is someone raw and wanting and willing to be seen that way.

Scott undoes the button. Drags down the zipper. Ilya lifts his hips, and Scott pulls the jeans and boxers down together, tossing them somewhere off the side of the bed.

And then Ilya is naked beneath him.

Scott sits back, taking him in. The long lines of muscle. The flush spreading down his chest. The way his cock curves up toward his stomach.

Scott retrieves the bottle from the nightstand—the same one from last night—and settles between Ilya’s thighs. He runs his clean hand down the inside of Ilya’s leg, feels the muscle quiver under his palm.

“I’m going to take my time,” Scott says.

Ilya nods.

Scott slicks his fingers and circles Ilya’s entrance, not pressing in, just letting him feel the pressure. Ilya’s hips jerk.

Scott’s free hand presses flat against Ilya’s hip, steadying him. “I’ve got you.”

He works one finger in slowly, watching Ilya’s face for any sign of discomfort. But Ilya’s expression is slack with pleasure, his mouth open, his eyes fluttering closed.

“This is taking my time?” Ilya manages. “I have had slower service at drive-through.”

Scott crooks his finger in retaliation, and Ilya’s smug expression shatters into a gasp. He adds a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching. Ilya clenches around him and then forces himself to relax, breathing through it the way athletes learn to breathe through pain.

“That’s it,” Scott murmurs. “You’re doing so good.”

Ilya’s laugh is breathless, strained. “You sound like coach giving pep talk.”

“You want me to stop talking?”

“Nyet—no. Keep talking.” Ilya’s hips rock back onto Scott’s fingers, greedy despite the stretch.

Scott twists his wrist, searching, and knows he’s found it when Ilya’s whole body jerks. A sound escapes him that’s closer to a whine than anything Scott would have thought possible from Ilya Rozanov.

In the armchair nearby, Kip is resting, head pillowed on Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s fingers card absently through Kip’s hair as he watches Scott work Ilya open.

“Hunter.” Ilya’s voice has dropped into something rawer. “Want to tell you something.”

“... Alright.”

Ilya’s throat works. He doesn’t look away, holding Scott’s gaze.

“Want you to choke me.”

Scott’s fingers still inside him.

“What?”

“Maybe I say it wrong.” The words come out fast, tumbling over each other. Ilya’s accent thickens the way it always does when he’s flustered, vowels going soft and slippery. “My English, sometimes I—the word is not right? Choking? Is that—I mean when you put hand here—” He touches his own throat briefly, fingers pressing against his pulse point. 

“Ilya.” Scott’s voice is steady. “Your English is fine.”

“Here.” Ilya’s fingers press against his own pulse point. “Shane won’t. He is too—” He breaks off, swallowing. “He worries. But you. You would be careful. I know you would be careful.”

Scott’s chest tightens. He glances toward the corner, where Shane has gone very still, Kip frozen against his chest.

Shane’s jaw is tight, but he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything at all. Just watches, trusting Scott to make the call.

“You won’t hurt me.” Ilya’s hand leaves his throat and finds Scott’s wrist, guiding it upward.

Scott’s pulse is racing. This isn’t something he’s ever thought about. But Ilya is looking up at him with so much trust, so much want, and Scott thinks about what Ilya said earlier: I want to know what it feels like. With him.

“If you say stop—”

“Then you stop. I know.” Ilya’s mouth curves, some of that familiar challenge returning. “What, you think I don’t know you by now, Hunter? Is why I am asking.”

Scott exhales slowly. His thumb traces the line of Ilya’s jaw, feeling the flutter of his pulse.

“I am not fragile,” Ilya says quietly. “I will tap your wrist if it is too much.” He presses Scott’s hand more firmly against his throat. “Trust me. Same way Kip trusts you.”

Scott inhales. “Okay.”

Ilya rolls his hips impatiently. “Now stop talking and fuck me.”

Scott’s breath is coming faster now. He glances at Shane, looking for… he doesn’t know what. Permission? Objection?

Shane’s expression is complicated. Tense. But he gives a small nod.

Scott exhales slowly. His fingers flex against Ilya’s throat, testing. Ilya’s breath catches, but he doesn’t look away.

“Fine,” Scott says. “Okay.”

He starts moving his other hand again, the one still inside Ilya, crooking his fingers to hit that spot that makes Ilya’s back arch. At the same time, he applies gradual pressure to Ilya’s throat, not enough to cut off air, but enough to make breathing harder, to make Ilya feel the weight of Scott’s hand, the control he’s ceding.

Ilya’s eyes flutter. His mouth falls open, gasping, and the sound that escapes is wrecked and desperate.

“Blyad’—” The word dissolves into a moan as Scott presses harder with both hands, fingers inside, palm against throat.

“That’s it,” Scott murmurs, searching Ilya’s face for any sign of distress. He finds none. “Take it. You wanted this. Show me you can take it.”

Ilya’s hips jerk, fucking himself back onto Scott’s fingers. His hands fly up to grip Scott’s forearm. His pulse is wild under Scott’s palm, his breath coming in short, labored gasps.

“Look at you,” Scott says, and his voice has gone rough in a way he barely recognizes. “All that attitude, all that mouth, and this is what you needed. Someone to hold you down and make you feel it.”

Ilya’s eyes are wet. Whether from the pressure on his throat or the overwhelming sensation, Scott can’t tell. But he’s nodding frantically, desperately, his whole body trembling.

“More. Pozhaluysta. More.”

Scott increases the pressure and Ilya’s eyes roll back. A broken sound escapes him, something between a sob and a moan, and his cock jerks against his stomach, untouched and leaking.

“Oh my god,” Kip breathes from somewhere nearby.

Scott doesn’t look away from Ilya. Can’t look away. He’s transfixed by the way Ilya has surrendered completely and has melted into pure, desperate need. The sight of it hits him like a fist to the chest, heat pooling low and urgent in his belly.

With his other hand, Scott crooks his fingers. Ilya’s whole body arches off the bed, a desperate noise punched out of him.

“There?” Scott asks, pressing again.

“Fuck—yes, there, please—”

Scott works that spot relentlessly, adding a third finger when Ilya’s body opens for him. He sets a rhythm that has Ilya writhing, hands fisting in the sheets, a stream of Russian spilling from his lips that Scott doesn’t need to understand to interpret.

In the corner, Kip has turned in Shane’s lap, straddling his thighs. They’re kissing, slow and deep, but Shane’s eyes keep drifting open to watch the bed. To watch Ilya fall apart under Scott’s hands.

“Scott,” Ilya gasps.

The use of his first name catches Scott off guard. Ilya almost never uses it. It’s always Hunter, always that slight distance maintained between them.

“I need—”

Scott withdraws his fingers gently and Ilya whines at the loss. Scott strips out of his own jeans and boxers, rolls on a condom, slicks himself with more lube than probably necessary. He’d rather too much than not enough. 

He positions himself between Ilya’s thighs, hooks one of Ilya’s legs under his arm and spreads him open, lining himself up.

Ilya’s eyes have squeezed shut, his breath coming in shallow gasps, bracing himself.

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice cuts through the room from the corner, quiet but firm. “Look at me.”

Ilya’s eyes fly open, finding Shane across the room. 

“I’m right here,” Shane says. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Ilya keeps his gaze locked on Shane’s face.

Scott pushes in.

The sound Ilya makes is guttural, wrenched from somewhere deep. His hands fly up to grip Scott’s shoulders, nails digging in hard, but his eyes stay fixed on Shane. Scott holds still, buried halfway, letting Ilya adjust.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Shane adds from the corner, his voice rough.

Ilya drags in a shaky breath. His body slowly unclenches around Scott.

Shane’s mouth brushes Kip’s ear, murmuring something too low for Scott to catch, and Kip shivers visibly, pressing back harder against Shane’s chest.

Scott watches the tension drain from Ilya’s shoulders, watches the way his breathing evens out with Shane’s eyes on him. There’s something profound about the way Ilya needs Shane to witness this, to anchor him through it.

Scott slides in deeper, inch by careful inch, until he’s fully seated. Ilya’s body is impossibly hot around him, tight and trembling.

“Good?” Scott asks, his voice rough.

“Da.” Ilya’s answer is barely a whisper. His eyes are still locked on Shane across the room. “Move. Please.”

Scott pulls back slowly, then pushes in again. Ilya’s spread-open leg tightens over his hip, pulling him deeper, and Scott lets himself feel the drag, the heat, the way Ilya’s body opens for him.

“Hand,” Ilya gasps. “Scott. Your hand.”

Scott’s palm finds Ilya’s throat again. He doesn’t squeeze yet, but rests it there, feeling the rapid flutter of Ilya’s pulse, the vibration of each desperate sound he makes.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

Scott applies pressure gradually, watching Ilya’s face like a hawk. The effect is immediate. Ilya’s eyes go wide, his mouth falls open, and his whole body arches into Scott’s thrust.

“Fuh—”

Scott keeps his grip steady, not enough to cut off air completely, but it’s enough to make each breath a conscious effort. Ilya’s hands fly up to wrap around Scott’s wrist, but he doesn’t pull away. Just holds on.

“More,” Ilya whispers, still looking at Shane. “I can take it. Give me more.”

Scott bottoms out and thrusts back in, and Ilya’s breath punches out of him, but his hand stays steady on Scott’s wrist, his other hand threading fingers into Scott’s hair.

“Slower,” Ilya manages, and Scott obeys instantly, adjusting his rhythm to something deeper. “Yes. Like that.”

There it is. Even flat on his back, even split open and shaking, Ilya is still Ilya. Still reaching for control, still directing the play.

Scott finds he doesn’t mind.

“Good?” Scott asks, rolling his hips in a way that makes Ilya’s breath stutter.

“Good.” Ilya’s fingers tighten in Scott’s hair, pulling just hard enough to sting. “Now. Harder.”

Scott braces one hand beside Ilya’s head and gives him what he asked for. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by Ilya’s sharp gasps and the creak of the bed frame.

“Da,” Ilya breathes, his back arching. “There. Again.”

Scott hits that angle again, and again, and Ilya is babbling now, a mix of Russian and English, praise and profanity tangled together. His hand is still in Scott’s hair, still directing, still present even as his body comes undone.

In the corner, movement.

“Look at Shane,” Scott instructs.

Ilya’s gaze cuts to the corner.

Scott does the same. He glances over without breaking rhythm and sees Shane’s hand sliding down the front of Kip’s jeans, Kip’s head thrown back against Shane’s shoulder, his mouth open on a silent moan. Shane is watching the bed with dark, hungry eyes, his hand working Kip in slow strokes that match the pace Scott has set.

“Shane,” Ilya says, and his voice carries despite the breathlessness. “Let me see him.”

It takes Scott a moment to realize Ilya means Kip. Shane’s hand stills, and Kip whines at the loss, but Shane is already shifting, helping Kip strip out of his jeans, turning him so he’s facing the bed fully.

Kip is flushed and hard and gorgeous, trembling in Shane’s lap. His eyes are fixed on where Scott and Ilya are joined.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya tells him. “Let me watch.”

Kip’s hand wraps around himself, obedient, and Ilya makes a low, satisfied sound.

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs, and Kip shudders visibly at the praise.

Scott feels something hot twist in his chest at the dynamic. Ilya, pinned beneath him, being fucked open, and still commanding the room. Still taking care of everyone in it.

“You’re incredible,” Scott hears himself say. “You know that?”

Ilya’s attention snaps back to him. Then his hand tightens in Scott’s hair and pulls him down into a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.

“Harder,” Ilya says against his mouth. “I want to feel this tomorrow.”

Scott groans and gives up any pretense of restraint. He fucks into Ilya hard and deep, chasing the sounds he makes, the way his body arches up to meet every thrust. Ilya’s legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him on.

“Krasivyy,” Shane breathes.

A sob catches in Ilya’s throat. Scott feels it vibrate against his palm, feels the way Ilya’s whole body shudders at the word.

Scott increases the pressure slightly, and Ilya’s eyes roll back. His hips jerk, trying to fuck himself on Scott’s cock, chasing sensation. Scott pins him down with his weight, holding him still.

“I’ve got you,” Scott says. “I’ve got you.”

Tears stream down Ilya’s temples into his hair, but he’s nodding, gasping, his body clenching rhythmically around Scott. Every exhale is a broken sound, punched out of him by the combination of Scott’s hand on his throat and the relentless press of Scott inside him.

“You’re doing so well,” Scott tells him, and means it. “So fucking good for me.”

Ilya makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Ty svodish’ menya s uma—”

“I know.” Scott doesn’t know what Ilya said, but he knows the tone. Knows the desperation in it. “I know.”

He shifts his angle, searching, and when he finds it—when he hits that spot that makes Ilya’s whole body seize—he doesn’t let up. Just keeps grinding into it, his hand steady on Ilya’s throat, watching the man beneath him shatter into pieces.

“Scott—” 

Ilya’s voice is wrecked, barely recognizable.

Scott feels the pressure building at the base of his spine, hot and urgent, but he holds it back. Not yet. Not until—

Ilya gasps. His hand leaves Scott’s hair to tap his wrist, then immediately wraps around his own cock. “Scott, I’m—”

Scott releases his throat.

Ilya gasps, oxygen flooding back, and the rush of it combines with everything else—Scott inside him, Shane’s eyes on him, Kip’s desperate sounds from the corner. His eyes fly to Shane across the room, and whatever he sees there tips him over the edge.

He comes with a sound that’s almost a sob, spilling over his own fist and onto his stomach, clenching tight around Scott. His back bows off the bed, every muscle going taut, and Scott fucks him through it, relentless, until Ilya is shaking and oversensitive and making these small, punched-out noises with every thrust.

“Fuck,” Kip breathes from the corner, and Scott hears the hitch in his voice that means he’s close too.

“Come on,” Shane murmurs against Kip’s ear, loud enough for Scott to catch. “Let him see you.”

Kip breaks with a cry, spilling over his own fingers, his whole body shuddering through it while his eyes stay locked on the bed, on Ilya spread out and wrecked, on Scott still moving inside him.

The sight of it—Kip falling apart, Shane’s possessive grip on his hip, Ilya boneless and fucked-out beneath him—drags Scott over the edge. He buries himself deep and comes with a groan that feels like it’s torn from somewhere, his vision whiting out at the edges.

Distantly, he hears Kip’s muffled moan, Shane’s low murmur of praise.

Scott collapses forward, catching himself on his forearms to keep from crushing Ilya. They’re both breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. Ilya’s hand is still in Scott’s hair, but the grip has gone gentle now, fingers stroking through the damp strands.

“Fuck,” Ilya manages. His voice is wrecked. “Hunter.”

“Okay?” Scott manages.

Ilya laughs, breathless and real. “Yes. You are very good at following directions.”

“Yeah, well.” Scott disposes of the condom and collapses onto the bed beside him, one arm draped across Ilya’s chest. “You’re welcome.”

Movement from the corner. Shane eases Kip off his lap and crosses to the bed, grabbing a washcloth from the en suite. He cleans Ilya up with gentle hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead when Ilya makes a soft, grateful sound.

The gesture is so casual, so intimate, that Scott feels like he’s witnessing something private.

“Hey,” Shane says quietly.

“Hey.” Ilya turns into the touch, pressing his cheek against Shane’s palm. “Good show, yes?”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Decent.”

“Decent,” Ilya repeats, mock-outraged. “I am naked and ravished and you say decent?”

Shane just smiles, thumb tracing Ilya’s cheekbone, and doesn’t answer.

Kip crawls onto the bed from the other side, still boneless and flushed, and tucks himself against Scott’s back. His lips brush the nape of Scott’s neck.

Shane settles on Ilya’s other side, and somehow they all end up tangled together in the middle of the bed. 

Scott isn’t sure whose leg is whose anymore. Doesn’t particularly care.

The evening light has faded to true dark outside the windows. Someone should probably close them. The air coming off the lake is cold now, but no one moves to do it because the silence settling over them is comfortable and warm. Scott can feel Ilya’s heartbeat under his palm, slowing gradually back to normal. Can feel Kip’s breath evening out against his back, the particular heaviness that means he’s drifting toward sleep.

Shane reaches across Ilya to rest his hand on Scott’s arm. The touch is light, almost tentative.

“Thank you,” Shane says. “For—” He stops, clears his throat. “For taking care of him.”

Scott turns his head enough to meet Shane’s eyes. In the dark, he can barely make out his expression, but he can hear the sincerity in his voice.

Ilya makes a pleased sound, shifting so he’s pressed more firmly against both of them. “I am very well taken care of.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Scott mutters.

“Too late. Already there.”

Kip’s arm tightens around Scott’s waist, pulling him closer, and Scott lets himself be held. Lets himself sink into the warmth of bodies pressed together, the smell of sex and sweat and the clean pine scent drifting in from outside.

Tomorrow they’ll have to leave. Go back to their separate cities, their separate teams, the careful public distance they maintain. But right now, in this bed, in this cottage by the lake, none of that matters.

“Hey,” Kip murmurs against his neck, barely awake. “Love you.”

Scott’s chest does that thing it always does when Kip says it, that sudden, overwhelming fullness that still catches him off guard after all this time.

“Love you too,” he says quietly.

On his other side, he hears Shane whisper something to Ilya in halting Russian, all too low to catch, but Ilya’s response is warm and pleased. Whatever it is makes Shane huff a quiet laugh and press closer.

Scott closes his eyes and lets himself drift away.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆ ˚❆

“So,” Ilya says, twisting in the passenger seat to look at them. “When are you coming back?”

Ilya is wearing a scarf.

It’s cashmere, a deep burgundy that looks expensive and sits high on his throat. Shane’s, probably. It covers the bruises completely, but Scott knows they’re there. He keeps looking at the elegant drape of fabric and thinking about what’s underneath.

Ilya catches him looking in the side mirror. His mouth curves and he adjusts the scarf with theatricality.

Scott looks away.

“We talked about it,” Kip says, glancing at Shane in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you guys could come to us next time. New York.”

“Ah.” Ilya’s eyes light up. “Yes. Good. I want to see your apartment. Judge your furniture choices. Shane, we should go to New York.”

Shane’s expression is carefully neutral, but Scott catches the way his eyes flick to Ilya, checking in. “If they’re inviting us.”

“We’re inviting you,” Scott says, and the words come out before he can second-guess them.

Ilya’s grin sharpens, satisfied and a little smug, like he’s already planning what furniture to criticize.

The drive to the airport is quiet.

Scott is in the back seat with Kip, their fingers loosely intertwined on the seat between them. Shane is driving, Ilya in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio until Shane slaps his hand away and puts on something soft and acoustic.

The Montreal suburbs slide past the windows. Fields of dried goldenrod pass them by, stalks pale and skeletal.

The sky is that particular grey of late autumn, heavy with the promise of rain.

“I hate this part,” Kip murmurs.

“We play each other in two weeks,” Ilya announces from the front seat. “Is not like we are never seeing you again.”

“That’s different,” Kip says.

And Scott knows what he means. Hockey is public. Hockey is cameras and reporters and the careful performance of professional rivalry. This, whatever this is, is private. Precious. Hard to protect.

“This is not ending when you get on plane,” Ilya says, and there’s no teasing in his voice. He twists in his seat to look at them, and his expression is serious. “You know this, yes?”

Scott meets his gaze.

“Yeah,” Kip says. “I know.”

Ilya nods, satisfied, and turns back around.

Shane catches Scott’s eye in the rearview mirror. Something passes between them.

The airport appears on the horizon.

The terminal is the usual chaos of rolling suitcases and harried travelers. Shane pulls up to the departure curb, and for a moment they all just sit there, engine idling.

“Well,” Kip says.

“Well,” Ilya echoes.

Scott opens his door first, because someone has to. The cold air hits him. He rounds the car to get their bags from the trunk, and Shane is already there, lifting them out.

“Thanks,” Scott says. “For having us.”

“Thank you for coming,” Shane says. “And for... everything else.”

Scott huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”

Ilya appears at Shane’s shoulder, slinging an arm around him. The burgundy scarf has loosened during the drive, and Scott can see the edge of a bruise peeking above the cashmere.

“Hunter. Come here.”

Scott goes.

Ilya pulls him into a hug that’s tighter than Scott expects. He smells like Shane’s shampoo and maple syrup and something underneath that’s just him. When he speaks, his mouth is close to Scott’s ear.

“You are good man, Scott Hunter,” Ilya murmurs. “Don’t forget.”

Scott’s throat tightens. He hugs back, just as tight, and feels Ilya’s hand press flat against his spine.

When they separate, Ilya reaches up and adjusts his scarf.

Kip is already saying goodbye to Shane, the two of them locked in a hug that goes on long enough to make Ilya whistle.

“Okay, okay. Save some for next time.”

Kip laughs and pulls back, but his eyes are suspiciously bright. “Next time.”

“Next time,” Shane agrees. His hand lingers on Kip’s shoulder for a moment before falling away.

Scott takes Kip’s hand. Their bags are at their feet. The automatic doors of the terminal slide open and close behind them, a steady rhythm of arrivals and departures. Cold air rushes out each time, carrying the smell of coffee and the particular anonymity of travel.

Ilya raises a hand in farewell.

Shane is already back in the driver’s seat, but he hasn’t pulled away. He’s watching through the window, waiting to see them go inside. Making sure.

Scott raises his hand back.

Then he picks up his bag, and they walk through the doors, and the glass slides shut behind them.