Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Theriault (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Russian Mafia, Alternate universe - Mafia, Established Relationship, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Yuna Hollander, Outing, Alternate Universe, Crime Boss Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Crime Boss Yuna Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of love-a-nov (hollanov one-shots), Part 2 of mafi[oh]so in love - hollanov mafia au

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-05 Words: 4,590 Chapters: 1/1

win some, lose some, break some (fingers)

Summary

The first time that Ilya Rozanov’s face ends up in this news, it is a damning photo―one with both of his and Shane's face―and Ilya doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that he sees it first.

Shane is on a run and then he will shower. His phone is on the nightstand charging because despite the fact that Ilya may head the North American bratva, Shane is the psychopath between them. He prefers to run without headphones in. It’s almost enough for Ilya to second guess his relationship.

Or: How Shane Hollander, famous hockey player, gets outed by a photo of him kissing his very quiet, completely unremarkable boyfriend, but make it a Mafia AU

Notes

This is technically a follow-up to my last Hollanov fic (which was a Mafia AU), but you don't need to have read it in order to read this. It's a stand-alone.

If you want to read a Hollanov Mafia AU, though... the 2-part fic just before this one in this series is a long version of one... just, if you're interested...

Anyway! Enjoy!

The first time of his life that Ilya Rozanov’s face ends up in news headlines is a day in which two other things also happen. 

First, Russia is officially no longer looming over Ilya’s head. It does not pose a threat―not one any bigger than the risk of food poisoning that comes with ordering Boston street food―and as far as Ilya is concerned, the last of his father’s and brother’s associates are gone for good. Some are sinking into the riverbed; others are back in the motherland. Ilya doesn’t really care where they ended up; all he cares about is that it means that he can finally see Shane again. It’s been months of only video calls and texting, so the second that Ilya has true confirmation that Boston―and Ilya, by extension―is once again free of any real threat, he is on the first flight to Montreal that will take him to Shane.

Unfortunately, that is what leads to the second thing.

Ilya’s face is not alone in the news headlines. In fact, as much as he would like to brag otherwise, his face is not the one that the tabloids are focused on. Instead, it is Shane’s face beside his, and Shane’s name covering the front pages and flashing across news sites. Alongside each and every article is some variation of an accusation that Ilya knows will never disappear no matter how badly they both want to bury it: Shane Hollander gay?

It’s a damning photo―the one with both of their faces that makes the headlines―and Ilya doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that he sees it first.

Shane is on a run and then he will shower. His phone is on the nightstand charging because despite the fact that Ilya may head the North American bratva, Shane is the psychopath between them. He prefers to run without headphones in. It’s almost enough for Ilya to second guess his relationship.

He never does, even now. Instead, he waits alone in the bed for Shane to return. He continues to wait until Shane has showered―knows that the news will derail Shane’s day―and when he knows the time has come to break it, he doesn’t wait any longer.

“Shane.” He stops Shane on his way to the bedroom door. “Come here, lyubimii.”

Shane gives him an odd look which is fair. Ilya has been unnaturally quiet since Shane got back and now, he is about to share unfortunate news.

“Are you feeling alright?” Shane asks. He kneels on the bed beside Ilya with a frown, his hand already reaching for Ilya’s forehead. “You sound odd. And you’ve been quiet.”

“There is something you need to know,” Ilya says, and he hates how the words make something worried appear in Shane’s eyes. “I want you to sit.”

Shane does so warily. He’s barely settled when his phone rings. The caller ID says Farah, and Ilya snatches the phone from Shane’s hands before he can accept.

“Ilya! What the hell?”

“You will hear it from me,” Ilya says, and denies the call. Farah calls back immediately and Ilya denies it again before turning Shane’s phone all the way off.

“Hear what? What is going on? Give me my phone!”

“There are photos of us in the news,” Ilya says. “Together. From last night.”

“Wh―What?” Shane’s voice is strained, hardly more than a breath. “Where?”

“Everywhere.” Ilya puts Shane’s phone aside in favor of reaching for his boyfriend’s hand. He squeezes tightly. “They are damning. They have our faces―Both of them.”

“What?” Shane repeats. “Show me.”

“I am not sure―”

“Show me, Ilya.”

Ilya hands his own phone over. The news page is open with Shane’s name in the topic bar, and Ilya watches as Shane scrolls through endless articles. His brow furrows deeper the longer that he scrolls. When his breath finally catches and doesn’t recover, Ilya takes his phone back.

“Breathe, lyubimii.” 

Shane lets out a sob instead. Ilya is quick to hug him. He pulls Shane onto his lap, tangles one hand in Shane’s hair and fists the other in his shirt, and hugs him so tightly that Ilya's arms ache. It doesn’t stop Shane from shaking with another sob. His arms scramble around Ilya’s shoulders and nails dig punishingly into his skin, but Ilya doesn’t tell him to stop. Part of him deserves it. If Ilya had not come last night―if he had not let his desperation to see Shane override his common sense―Shane would not be facing this now.

Because it is Shane who is facing it. Ilya’s face may be in those photos, but he is a nobody in the eyes of the world. The tabloids do not have his name and the American feds don’t have his face; no dots have been connected and it is likely to stay that way. Shane is not so lucky. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya whispers into the crook of Shane’s neck. He doesn’t think Shane hears it over his tears. “Is my fault.”

“No.” Shane squeezes him tightly. “No, this isn’t on you.”

“It is a little,” Ilya argues. “Was me who couldn’t wait until we were inside. Is my fault.”

“No, and I’m not arguing about it.” Shane’s voice shakes and then breaks into another sob, and Ilya is also no longer arguing about it. 

“Shh, breathe, lyubimii,” he repeats. He soothes a hand down Shane’s back and scratches gently at Shane’s scalp. “It will be okay. Breathe.”

Shane tries to listen. Ilya knows that he does. But every time―just as Shane’s breathing is about to finally even out―another sob makes itself known and they’re back to the beginning. Ilya doesn’t know how long it takes for Shane’s tears to subside and his body to go limp against Ilya’s, but it is long enough for the sun to be much brighter than it was before. Ilya’s stomach is also starting to protest the time.

“How long ago,” Shane asks, face still tucked against Ilya’s neck, “did it break? The news?”

“Not long,” Ilya says gently. “Earliest article after you left.”

Ilya won’t be surprised if Shane doesn’t find that comforting. It’s hardly past seven in the morning now, and the news is everywhere. The Voyageurs have just opened the season―last night was their first official game―and Shane’s name is in the headlines not because of his hat trick, but because he was caught kissing Ilya outside his apartment complex.

As far as photos go, there are worse ones that could have been taken. These, although not ideal, are better than what the photographer could have gotten if he had waited outside of the apartment window. Ilya is glad they didn’t. He doesn’t want to draw international attention by having someone killed because they were peeping. Nevertheless, the photos show their faces clearly―show the fondness on Shane’s face as Ilya makes a joke he can’t remember; show them kissing seconds later. If Shane wants to deny them, he can; it won’t be believed, though.

“I should call Farah back,” Shane murmurs.

“Probably.”

Neither of them make a move to pull away.

“My mom too, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“And―fuck,” Shane breathes, growing tense in Ilya’s arms. “My coach will―Theriault will want to talk to me. And the MLH will and―”

“Later,” Ilya cuts in. “Yuna first, maybe. And then Farah.”

“Theriault will bench me. He’ll―Fuck, if he called and I didn’t answer, he’ll have my head―”

“Then I’ll have his.” Ilya is only slightly joking. “Call Yuna first. Farah should handle contact with the league.”

“But―”

“Is for the best, Shane,” Ilya says. “Trust me. Let Farah do it.”

Eventually they pull apart. Ilya hands Shane his phone back and when Shane asks him to, he leaves the room. While Shane talks to his mom, Ilya makes breakfast. When Shane still isn’t done, Ilya calls Marlow; tells him to shut down whatever rumors the others have started and that if anyone so much as breaths wrong in the direction of Ilya’s home, to have them join the Russians. Ilya won’t take a risk like that when Shane is regularly in Boston. 

“There’s no talk yet,” Marly tells him, which is reassuring. “There will be, but we’ll handle it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t fucking thank me, Roz,” Marly scoffs. “It’s the least I’d do. Though,” he adds after a moment, “if you do want to thank me, guess you could start by telling me more about this secret boy you’ve apparently got.” 

“Shane is not boy,” Ilya says with a huff.

“You know what I mean,” Marly says. “You going through a hockey phase?”

“Sure.” Ilya shrugs. “If ‘phase’ lasts eleven years.”

Marlow makes a truly impressive sound on the other end of the line and Ilya revels in it. 

It has been a big secret, now that Ilya realizes it. Not intentionally. Not really. For so long, there has been a combination of Ilya’s concerns around Russia and Shane’s worry about his career that there was no question about hiding it. While the choice has been taken from them now, Ilya is not so afraid of people knowing anymore. There is little risk from his end. Anyone who knows that his face belongs to the Rozanov name is either not a real threat or six feet under. Perhaps that will change in the future. For now, Ilya is sure enough to feel safe. 

Shane appears in the kitchen then. His eyes are red and bruised; his cheeks are tear stained. Ilya’s full attention is immediately on him.

“I must go, Marly,” he says. “Call if there is problem.”

He hangs up before Marlow can say anything else, dropping his phone on the counter to turn to Shane.

“Mom says Theriault wants me benched,” he says. “Says Crowell wants a meeting. Says she threatened to pull her support if they did either.”

“She owns the team,” Ilya says with a frown. How can she pull her support? 

“Yeah,” Shane says with a breath of a laugh. “She said she’d sell them for a dollar to the first bidder. I don’t think she meant it―”

“I think she did.”

“―but it was a nice sentiment.”

“Shane.” Ilya crosses the kitchen to hold both of Shane’s hands. “You mother loves you. She will do that if is necessary.” 

“I don’t want it to be necessary.”

“I know.” Ilya kisses his temple. “I know. What else?”

Yuna is preparing her own press conference set for noon. It’s likely sooner than the MLH can arrange, and Ilya is glad. As owner of the team, she’ll hold a lot of sway. If she publicly supports Shane―especially since the public doesn’t know that he’s her son―it will force the MLH’s hand. 

It turns out to do exactly that.

Farah calls before and after Yuna’s conference to speak with Shane. Ilya thinks Yuna may join one of the calls. He can’t make out everything said over the phone and Shane takes some of the calls in a different room with the door shut. Ilya is always waiting for him after. It’s a day spent mostly waiting between calls and holding Shane as he cries. There is no word from Theriault or Crowell, but it’s not comforting. Farah is insisting on being the only one to talk to them and while Ilya is grateful that Shane has the buffer, he knows that it’s making Shane more anxious.

Unfortunately, Shane’s anxiety is there for good reason.

Theriault benches him. Crowell calls and Shane picks up despite Farah’s instructions. Ilya is on his own call when it happens. When he comes out to find Shane in the midst of a panic attack on the couch, it doesn’t take long to uncover why. Shane returning to practice does not make things better.

The news is still in the headlines. Ilya is still in Montreal. He won’t leave until things are settled―refuses to make Shane go through this alone―and puts Marly and Vicky in charge until he can return. He’s not sure how long it will be but it’s good practice for all of them, he supposes. He’s been wanting to take a step back for a while. Now that Russia is gone, he can. It isn’t how he planned on doing it, but he is glad that he has the option to step back now when he needs to. It makes this next part much easier.

Ilya has been to the Voyageurs’ arena before. It’s where Yuna conducts official business, as odd as it seems. It provides a good cover for both sides and there are enough back tunnels that people coming to meet with her for less-than-legal reasons don’t have to worry about being seen. Ilya doesn’t use them this time. Instead, he walks down the open halls and straight to where he knows the locker room is.

It’s mostly quiet on this side of the doors. There is no loud chatter or laughter like there was last time he walked by using the tunnels. This time, it’s muffled voices that sound as hostile as Ilya imagined when Shane first told him about how his team had responded to the news. It hurts Ilya’s heart to know this is what Shane faces now; more than anything, though, it angers him.

Shane is the first to leave. His shoulders are slouched and there’s something sad and resigned on his face even as he fidgets with the sleeve of his sweater. He doesn’t notice Ilya until Ilya slips off the wall and intercepts him smoothly.

“Ilya?” Shane frowns and then smiles, and then he looks around the hall frantically. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to pick you up from practice,” Ilya says. “Thought you would be happy.”

“I am.” It’s not that convincing. “I―How long have you been here?”

“You do not want me here?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Shane murmurs. “I have a meeting with Crowell and Theriault―”

“What?” Ilya’s frown deepens. “Why? I thought Farah said not to.”

“No, I know that.” Shane rubs at his forehead. “I just―I need to, okay?”

“Then I will come with.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Ilya insists. He reaches for Shane’s hand and squeezes. “They will be mean to you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Is true.”

“They’re just doing their job,” Shane argues weakly. “The optics and everything. Fans, sponsors―Everyone will want to know the Voyageurs’ official position, and I need to be part of that.”

“Okay, but I go too.”

Shane looks ready to continue arguing despite also looking like he’s about to fall asleep. Unfortunately for him, his coach barrels through the locker room doors with a scowl that Ilya does not like. Ilya meets Theriault's gaze before Shane can, and Theriault’s scowl deepens. 

“Meeting, Hollander,” he says shortly. “Now.”

“Yes, sorry,” Shane says. “I was just on my way.”

When both Shane and Ilya move to follow Theriault, the man stops.

“Get rid of him,” Theriault says with a flippant wave to Ilya. “No outsiders.”

“He insists,” Shane says, “and honestly, it’s easier to just―”

“Get rid of him!”

Ilya has known a lot of terrible men. Theriault reminds him of many. His voice raises and Shane’s eyes close in resignation, and Ilya is suddenly no longer there to simply pick up his boyfriend and scowl at his teammates. He will take the coach’s bones. Will pick the coach’s bones. Whatever the phrase is, there is bones and the coach’s are in danger.

“Do not talk to him like that.” Ilya’s voice drops and he takes a step forward, his shoulder sliding in front of Shane’s. 

“I’ll talk to him however I want,” Theriault snaps, “and you better get lost.”

He stabs a finger into Ilya’s chest. The finger breaks in Ilya’s grip before the coach can fully land a scowl on either of them. There’s an echoing cry of pain from the man in front of him and a gasp from the man behind him. 

“Ilya, stop!” Shane grabs his shoulder and pulls him back, and Ilya goes with ease. “You can’t just―Holy shit, Ilya.”

Theriault gasps in pain and stares with wide eyes at his now-crooked finger. 

“Don’t touch me,” Ilya hisses at Theriault, “and don’t raise your fucking voice at him.”

“Who do you think you are?” Theriault demands. Behind him, the locker room door swings open and a herd of hockey players come to a very short stop at the sight of their coach turning red in the face. “You come in here and assault me after ruining my star player―”

“Ruin?” Ilya echoes lowly. “I did not ruin. I did not anything. Shane is the best of you all and you are stain on his shoe.”

“Ilya, I’m serious, stop,” Shane whispers beside him. “Leave it be. We’ll go―see my mom or something. I’ll quit. Just―” He switches to rapid Russian, “If you keep fucking assaulting him, you’ll get arrested. They’ll figure out who you are.”

“Let them,” Ilya snarls, also in Russian, without turning away. He glares first at Theriault and then at each of the players standing shocked behind him. “Let them, and maybe then they will treat you how you deserve. If the threat of me is what makes them see reason, I’ll show them the worst.”

“What’s going on here?”

Ilya does not need to turn to know it is Yuna who has now joined them. He didn’t know she was here; has no idea how she knew to come. 

“This fa―cking menace―” A dark look from Ilya corrects Theriault fast enough, “―is trespassing and assaulting the team. Get the cops.”

“Ilya?”

Ilya does turn at that. Mostly, he’s confused as to why she’s addressing him. The look of shock on Theriault’s face registers in the corner of Ilya’s eye, though, and it satisfies him immensely. The owner of the Voyageurs―the woman who controls Theriault’s job―knows who he is. It is not a good look for a man who just tried to call Ilya a slur.

“Apologies, Mrs. Takayama,” Ilya says with a nod. “I only came to get Shane.”

“And assault my coach?” She raises a brow.

“An accident.”

“And accident my ass―”

“Theriault,” Yuna interrupts, “I thought we had decided that the Voyageurs were going to embrace diversity. What happened to that?”

Theriault stutters out a response that has something to do with the MLH and sponsors. There’s something about images and the fans as well, and Yuna looks to be entertaining the rant only marginally more than Ilya would have. There’s a reason she’s a relatively public-facing figure, he supposes. She’s better at illusions. Ilya just broke a man’s finger for the way he had snapped at Shane. He thinks―if Yuna were open to it―they would actually make quite a formidable team.

“Ilya is a friend of mine,” Yuna says once Theriault has finished his rant. Ilya preens at the words and Shane sighs at his side. “Shane is the Voyageurs’ star player. Tell me why I should not fire you for how you have treated either of them.”

“Mrs. Takayama, the optics―I never―There’s a line, you see, between coaching and leniency,” Theriault says haltingly. And then, as if as an afterthought and with the face of a man who does not like the taste of his words, he adds, “I am not homophobic.”

It’s a winning end that makes Ilya snort. Shane tells him to shut up in Russian.

“How many of your players are also ‘not homophobic’?” Yuna asks. Her voice is cold and Ilya turns with glee to watch the players―there are now more of them somehow. The way she says it is with a warning; no one moves at first.

“Well, I’m not.” It’s a short guy with bland brown hair, and he pushes his way to the front of the group with a frown. Immediately, the rest of them all mutter out some garbled agreement only for the first man to interrupt them loudly. “No, fuck all of you, disrepectfully,” he says. “Shane’s been our brother for eleven years and you’ve all been assholes.”

“Hayden―” Shane sighs, “―it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” the guy―Hayden―huffs. “I’m not homophobic and if any of them actually weren’t, they’d say so too.”

“How about I ask Shane?” Yuna turns to Shane expectantly. “How many of your teammates,” she asks, “share your coach’s ‘not homophobic’ opinions?”

For several long seconds, Shane doesn’t answer. He simply stares at his mom. Yuna stares back. There are a few hushed whispers from the group of hockey players and while Ilya doesn’t understand what they say, Shane must. His shoulders go tight and Ilya grabs Shane's hand with both of his own. From the group, someone lets out a loud scoff.

Yuna’s eyes shift so quickly to the group that Ilya catches it too late. Her eyes narrow and Ilya has no idea how she does it, but she singles out the man responsible for the disgusted huff with ease.

“Comeau,” she says, “you’re traded.”

The group erupts immediately and with it―Shane. He very nearly calls her mom but manages to not. The loud protests from his teammates drown out any remnant of his slip-up. There are protests about it being the beginning of the season, that trades can’t be made now. Ilya doesn’t think that will stop Yuna.

“Theriault, you’re fired too.”

The protests grow louder. The hall becomes deafeningly loud and Ilya loves it. He grins―wide and giddy―and watches as the Montreal Voyageurs scramble over themselves to protest both Comeau’s and Theriault’s firings.

“Anyone else ‘not homophobic’?” Yuna doesn’t shout, but her voice rings clear over the hockey players. “Anyone else uncomfortable with Shane in the locker room? Disagree with his ‘lifestyle’?”

Nobody says anything but Ilya knows that won’t stop Yuna from firing more players. She’ll get Shane to tell her who the biggest problems have been―there are three of them; Ilya knows that much.

“Clean out your things,” she orders Theriault and Comeau. “Be out in an hour.”

“My contract isn’t up―”

“You’re fucking traded,” Yuna snarls, and Comeau physically backs up. “Get out.”

She waves down the hall and the team files out as fast as they can. Except for the one who spoke up earlier, the entire team and Theriault are gone within seconds. Hayden pauses in front of Yuna after a short glance at Shane.

“For the record,” he says, “they aren’t all bad. But I’ll rat on ‘em if Shane doesn’t. Just let me know, boss.” 

He gives an awkward salute that makes Yuna smile and his face go red, and then he smiles encouragingly at Shane. He leaves after that. 

“Shane,” Yuna says with a sigh when the hall is clear. “You should have told me.”

“Told you what?” Shane says. “That the guys were being assholes? It was to be expected. I lied to them for years. They don’t feel like they can trust me.”

“I don’t care. Sweetheart―” Yuna gently brushes her hand over Shane’s cheek, “―what good does it do if I own the team but can’t protect you on it? You have to tell me these things.”

“I―” Shane bites his tongue and Ilya squeezes his hand. “The worst one was Comeau,” he says finally. “Drapeau too. The others―They’ll come around. Without Theriault encouraging it.”

Ilya―and it looks like Yuna―does not like what that implies. Unlike Yuna, however, only Ilya has seen the extra bruises that Shane has after practices. He hopes it’s due to Theriault’s “encouraging” and Comeau and Drapeau targeting him. With the three now gone―because Yuna will trade Drapeau too; Ilya knows it―perhaps things will get better. 

“They’re gone tonight,” Yuna promises. “I’ll get a new coach in before the end of next week but…” She grimaces, “I don’t think it’ll be in time for the next game. We’ll have to figure out something. And for the rest of the season too.”

And with that, Yuna is off in her own world. She presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead and makes him promise to call her tonight, and then she walks back down the hall almost as silent as she had appeared. Only her quiet mutterings give away her presence.

“I can’t believe you broke Theriault’s finger.”

Ilya laughs, loud and echoing, and Shane smiles. 

“You really shouldn’t have,” Shane continues. “He could press charges.”

“The world does not know my name,” Ilya says unconcerned. “He can try. Besides―” Ilya grins slyly, “was hot.”

“No,” Shane said firmly, “it was illegal. You can’t just break people’s fingers―”

“Was hot,” Ilya repeats. “You think so. I know you do.”

“No―”

“You want me to fuck you because I broke terrible man’s finger.”

“No,” Shane repeats a third time, “I want you to fuck me because―”

Ilya doesn’t let him finish. He pulls Shane into the dirtiest kiss he’s ever given him outside of a bedroom, and Shane goes limp against him. It’s easy to slip his tongue between Shane’s lips and tease him punishingly that way. Pinning him to the wall only makes it better.

Shane lets out a high-pitched keen that goes straight to Ilya’s groin.

“It was a little hot,” Shane finally agrees, words in slurred Russian. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, lyubov,” Ilya says, pressing a leg between Shane’s. “Now show me locker room so I can fuck you in it.”

Shane does just that and Ilya doesn’t let it surprise him. It would take precious time; time he could use taking Shane apart in Comeau’s stall and then in Drapeau’s. It takes more convincing for Shane to take him to Theriault’s office but Ilya makes sure he doesn’t regret it.

The next morning, news breaks again that shakes Shane’s life but this time, Ilya is more than happy to share it: Theriault fired, Drapeau and Comeau traded to Buffalo. Shane does frown, but it’s short-lived when Ilya follows that news up with the rows and rows of headlines criticizing the three for their alleged homophobic behavior. Yuna, it seems, had not been subtle when asked why the three were being let go.

“The Voyageurs have a strict, zero tolerance policy,” she’s quoted as saying. “Those who don’t adhere to it don’t belong here.”

Ilya thinks he loves her for it. Shane rolls his eyes when Ilya says so.

“You would get along too well,” he mutters, curling closer to Ilya under the covers. “She wants to have dinner with you, by the way.”

“Would be my honor,” Ilya says and kisses Shane’s head. “Yuna is my hero. Keeps you safe when I cannot.”

“You keep me plenty safe,” Shane argues softly. “You broke Theriault’s finger.”

“Wouldn’t have fixed your work,” Ilya grumbles. Shane kisses his chest and Ilya has to bite back a smile. “I am glad you will have better locker room, now.”

Shane lets out a long sigh and says, “We’re down two players and a coach. It isn’t going to be a good season.”

“Maybe not.” Ilya shrugs. “But you will be safe―happier. Bad teammates will be gone. And next season you will have new, good players and new coach. Will be okay.”

“Yeah,” Shane hums. “It will.”

And when it is, Ilya is there to say “told you so”, smiling halfway through the phrase as Shane shuts him up with a kiss.