Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter

Characters:

Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Matchmaking, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Lawyer Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Model Ilya Rozanov, Inspired by Married At First Sight (TV), Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Shane Hollander Speaks French, POV Alternating, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Completed: 2026-07-04 Words: 128,137 Chapters: 28/28

This is Such a Bad Idea

Summary

Shane Hollander does not leave outcomes to chance. When traditional dating fails to produce the stability he wants, he turns to a private matchmaker who promises something more deliberate: one match, one meeting, one decision.

Ilya Rozanov never planned to get married. But when his carefully controlled life starts to unravel, marriage becomes the simplest solution.

Neither of them is looking for love. What they agree to is a calculated partnership, built on alignment, not emotion.

It should be straightforward.

It is not.

Notes

Not beta'd. No timeline. I work full time and am a full time student so we'll see where life takes me. All images are fully described in the text of the chapters the image is in. If you can't see the images, you're not going to miss anything from the story!

Chapter 1: Chapter One - Shane

Chapter One - Shane

Shane and Rose are in his apartment, one empty bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen counter while another is well on its way to joining it. “He didn’t even have the audacity to say it to my face,” Shane lamented, probably for the fifth — no, eighth — time tonight. He was not drunk. Okay, maybe he had a little buzz, but that wasn’t the point. He was indignant, hurt, confused. Well, not confused. Looking back, Shane had seen the signs that this was coming, but it didn’t lessen the anger and the hurt. Harvey had known what his job was when they started dating. Shane had been very upfront about what it meant, what the hours were, how demanding it was. But when he’d called — called! — earlier tonight to tell Shane that he didn’t pay enough attention to Harvey and was never available to go out with and always wound up canceling plans, he was talking like he was surprised by Shane’s time constraints, or like he expected Shane to have changed. That was when the argument started. It hadn’t lasted long, mostly because Harvey had hung up on him and had apparently blocked him because when Shane had tried to call back, the call had gone straight to voicemail. 

So now, here he was with Rose, his best friend and confidant, lamenting and venting and ranting about the entire thing, placing every ounce of blame on Harvey because the wound was fresh and it was his right to do so tonight. He was in his anger stage of grief. 

“I just won’t date,” he told Rose. “No one gets it. Not unless they’re a lawyer, and I’m never doing that again.” 

Rose gave him that sad smile. It wasn’t pity, but it was knowing, and she reached over to squeeze his hand in support and commiseration. “Okay,” she agreed, a little too quickly and a little too casually. She usually tried to convince him that he just needed time to heal his heart and then he would find someone who was wonderful and who would love him and therefore understand, so Shane was suspicious. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Don’t date.” Rose had her phone in her hand now, scrolling for something before she turned the screen toward him, an Instagram post on her screen. He took it from her hand to get a closer look. 

The post looked simple at first glance. Minimal, almost understated in a way that felt intentional.

A square image, muted in tone. The background was a soft gray with a faint pattern of blurred lipstick marks, barely noticeable unless you looked for them. Centered over it was a white card, clean and untextured, like heavy stationery.

At the top of the card sat a red wax seal. Deep, glossy, slightly imperfect around the edges. It drew the eye immediately, the only bold color in the entire image.

The text was handwritten, black ink, fluid and deliberate:

I am welcoming a small number of new clients.

Available by referral only.

There was a small heart beneath it, almost an afterthought.

Nothing else explained it. No branding beyond the username at the top. No description of what “clients” meant. No contact information.

At the very bottom of the image, separated from the card, were two words in small, clean type:

CHOOSE LOVE

The whole thing felt controlled. Curated. Like it was meant to be seen by the right people and overlooked by everyone else.

“Trusted Circle? What is this?” Shane handed Rose her phone back and poured himself another glass of wine. 

Rose hummed, tucking her phone away. “A matchmaker,” she answered simply, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Shane almost spit out the wine he’d just sipped. “Very exclusive, I haven’t even met them, really. A client of mine used them and connected me in case I ever wanted to use them.”

“So how is this very exclusive matchmaker going to make it so I don’t have to date?” he asked despite knowing he probably wasn’t ready for the answer. He knew Rose. He’d known her for years, ever since they started at the law firm as first year associates together. They hadn’t made it to senior partners in the cutthroat world of corporate law by being naive or by showing their entire hand at once. There was another angle that she hadn’t shown him yet.

She gave Shane a smile, one that was knowing and telling and proved to Shane that he was right without her even having to say a word. “They don’t match you to date. They match you to marry. Meaning, the first time you meet the person they match you with, you get married. Legally, for at least a year, no taksies, no backsies.”

Shane was pretty sure he could feel the floor of his penthouse apartment falling out from under him. Or maybe he was more drunk than he thought he was and he was now hallucinating. Maybe he had alcohol poisoning and he was in a coma. “What? Isn’t that some trash reality TV show?”

“This isn’t a television show. I mean, yes, there is a show, but this isn’t filmed or anything. Their clients are elite. Rich. High powered. Discreet. And the matchmaker, from what my client told me, is really detail oriented. They think of everything, based on what they learn about you.” Apparently, whatever Shane’s face was giving, it was saying that he thought Rose was insane. “Look, I’m going to recommend you to them so you can at least follow them on Insta. You don’t have to make a decision tonight, but when they open space, it doesn’t stay open for long. And they don’t open space often.” She reached over to squeeze his hand again before standing from the sofa with her empty glass. “I’m going to bed, sweetie. Think about it, okay?” 

Shane nodded, telling Rose she knew where his spare room was and where everything in the guest bathroom was. He heard the bedroom door close and figured he may as well clean up and go to bed, too. Tomorrow was Sunday, the only day he and Rose ever took off. He would probably need it with how much wine he’d had to drink. Shane placed their glasses in the dishwasher and rinsed the empty bottles before placing them in the recycling. After turning the lights off, he retired to his own room. 

He moved through his own nightly routine on autopilot, mind going over the conversation about this matchmaker person, who Rose was suggesting to him but had never met as he brushed his teeth and washed his face and pulled on pajamas. He’s making lists in his head as he moves around his room, removing the absurd amount of decorative pillows from his bed and placing them neatly on the chair in the corner of the room, and then turning down the covers. Shane plugged his phone in and then slid into his bed easily, though he didn't lie down right away. Instead, he sat against the headboard, mind still too busy with his lists to even think about sleep yet. After a few more minutes of rolling ideas around and jumping from list to list, Shane does what he always does when his brain gets like this: he reaches into his bedside table and pulls out a brown leather bound journal. He turned to the first blank page and started to write the first list. 

Shane took his time, considering each bullet point carefully before he wrote it down. He’s thorough, allowing himself the space for vulnerability here because he knows that no one else will ever see this. He knows that he, at the very least, has to be vulnerable with himself to make the right decision. Shane thinks about what he wants in a partner, but not about whether he can get that from both waiting out his broken heart and signing up with this matchmaker person. For this list, that’s irrelevant. He forces himself to be selfish here in a way that feels uncomfortable. In the end, almost forty minutes pass and he has five bullet points to sum up the entirety of what is important to him in a relationship. In a partner.

Shane wrote the header first, centered enough to feel intentional.

Wants:

He paused after it, pen hovering just above the paper. Not uncertain. Just organizing.

Then he started the list.

The first line came easily.

• Consistent, reliable partner

He moved to the next without lifting his hand for long.

• Mutual respect and emotional safety

There was a slight pause before the third. Not hesitation. Consideration, like he was choosing the most precise wording.

• Low-conflict, cooperative dynamic

He shifted the notebook a fraction of an inch, aligning it with the edge of the table before continuing.

• Shared long-term goals (home, stability, future planning)

The parentheses were added after a beat, inserted cleanly without breaking the line.

The last point took the longest. His pen hovered again, then touched down.

• Partnership that integrates into his existing life rather than disrupts it

He finished the sentence, then went back over one word, pressing slightly harder to sharpen it. Not correcting. Just reinforcing.

When he was done, he didn’t add anything else, he just moved on to his next list.

Pros/Cons/Neutrals lists for why he should or shouldn’t reach out to the matchmaker were next. They were easier, usually. They didn’t require emotions, just facts. Shane liked facts. Facts were facts, they were or they weren’t, they didn’t change just because he wanted them to. These lists went faster, even though they were longer. Even the pros list, which Shane had wondered if he would struggle with came fairly easily for him.

The page filled more slowly this time.

Shane wrote the first header at the top, aligned with the margin.

Pros:

He did not pause long before starting.

• Efficient. Removes prolonged uncertainty and time spent dating.
• High level vetting. Implies compatibility has been pre-screened.
• Clear expectations. Both parties enter with the same stated goal.
• Privacy. Discreet process, minimal public exposure.
• Stability. Potential for long-term partnership without ambiguity.
• External structure. Decision is guided rather than left open-ended.
• Social alignment. Likely matched with someone of similar education, income, and lifestyle.

He moved through them in a steady rhythm, each point contained to a single line, no hesitation once the pen touched down.

A small space separated the next section.

Cons:

This time, there was a brief pause before the first line.

• Lack of control over selection process beyond initial criteria.
• Permanent legal and financial implications with limited prior knowledge of partner.
• Emotional risk. No foundation of trust or attachment beforehand.
• Reputational risk if it becomes public.
• Potential incompatibility that cannot be predicted through screening.
• Loss of autonomy in pacing relationship development.
• Unknown motives of the other person (financial, legal, personal).

His handwriting stayed consistent, but the pauses between lines were slightly longer. Not uncertainty. Just more deliberate.

Another break. Same spacing.

Neutral / Observations:

He adjusted the notebook again, aligning it without looking like he had.

• Outcome is binary. It either works or it does not.
• Traditional dating has not produced desired results to date.
• Timing is not ideal, but may not become ideal.
• Decision can be delayed, but delay does not change underlying variables.

He finished the last line and lifted the pen, holding it there for a second like he was deciding if there was anything else to add.

There wasn’t.

He read over all three sections in order, not lingering anywhere in particular, then set the pen down beside the notebook.

The page looked balanced.

He’d expected one list or the other to pull ahead in a very clear fashion, but he hadn’t known which one it would be. If he was once more being honest with himself — and he was on a roll with that tonight so why not? — he really didn’t have a preference as to which one it would be. Now that they had the same number in their lists, it meant that he had to weigh which seven to see which weighed more.

He looked at the list again.

Nothing had changed. Same number of lines. Same spacing. It should have felt unresolved. It didn’t. He read the pros first, slower this time.

Efficient.

That one stuck. Not in a vague way. In hours. Late nights. Weeks that blurred into each other. Time he had already spent trying to make something unstructured turn into something stable. It hadn’t worked.

He moved to the next.

High level vetting.

That read differently now. Not romantic. Not even personal. It read like due diligence. Like removing variables before they became problems. He understood that. He trusted that.

Clear expectations.

He paused there longer than he expected to. That one was not abstract. That one was specific. No guessing. No waiting for someone to decide what this was weeks or months in. No misalignment that only showed itself after it mattered.

He exhaled, slow, controlled, like he was resetting something.

Then he looked at the cons.

Lack of control.

That should have bothered him more than it did. It didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Control was relative. He had had control before, and it hadn’t guaranteed a better outcome.

Emotional risk.

He almost dismissed it immediately. That wasn’t unique. That existed regardless of how someone met. It didn’t belong exclusively to this.

Unknown motives.

Same category. Not new. Not avoidable.

The pros felt concrete. Measurable. Tied to things he understood how to evaluate.

The cons felt like variables that existed no matter what he did. That was the difference. The question shifted without him saying it out loud. Not which list was better. Which outcome was more likely. His decision was made before he could finish the thought, really, and Shane felt a weight lift from his chest just a little. He closed his journal and set it back in his drawer. 

***

Morning came. Shane, predictably, woke up with a headache and a mouth that tasted like he swallowed something dead in the middle of the night. He groaned, debating whether or not going back to sleep was the right call to make, but he knew he would never be able to. Once his brain decided he was awake, he was awake. He very carefully pulled himself from his bed and stumbled through to his bathroom to thoroughly scrub his mouth out with toothpaste and mouthwash. Twice. After showering and dressing in a clean set of lounge clothes, he felt vaguely more human and ready to brave the world outside of his bedroom, if only to obtain the only thing holy about this morning. Read: coffee. After grabbing his phone, Shane headed for the kitchen. Every morning after making his cup, he dutifully set his machine up to be ready for the next day, so he didn’t have to think too hard about it. Shane just pushed a button and let the appliance do its thing. 

Since he wasn’t a breakfast person, he stood with his hip propped against the counter, scrolling through emails as the apartment filled with the warm, rich scent that Shane loved. There were contracts to read, motions to file, depositions to schedule. All of the usual work filled his inbox, but among those was an email that stood out: a new follow request on Instagram. Shane didn’t really use social media. Rose had made his profile for him a couple of years ago. Shane clicked into the app to find that the request was from @trustedcircle_. He blinked at the notification for only a moment before tapping the “Allow” button just as a beep told him his coffee was ready. 

Turning the screen off, Shane set his phone on the counter, screen down, and turned his attention to resetting the machine for Rose when she woke up before taking his mug to the sofa. He picked up his laptop from the side table, intent on not thinking about the account. It wasn’t like he could do much until they followed him back. He wasn’t going to obsess over it. 

He obsessed over it. Instead of working, Shane went to google and typed in the Instagram handle. Of course, nothing came up that he didn’t already know. Everything else was unrelated. He didn’t stop there, though. He wouldn’t have made it through law school if he didn’t know how to research. Shane tried every combination of words and phrases he could think of to try and get some morsel of information about this person, this entity, that would be out there but there was nothing. They were a ghost. They existed only if you already knew they existed, and even then only if they allowed you in. It was comforting, and yet Shane was the most frustrated he’d been in years. 

The door to Rose’s room opened. Shane closed the browser and clicked to his email. She would know he was preoccupied, she knew him better than anyone else, but he didn’t have to hand it to her on a silver platter. “Good morning,” Shane greeted when she came into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. 

“Morning!” She was far too chipper for how much wine they consumed last night, Shane decided. Rose pressed the button, then turned toward him across the counter. Her expression stayed neutral, but her gaze held, steady and searching, like it was waiting for answers he wasn’t ready to give. So Shane pointedly kept his eyes on his laptop screen, not really reading what was there. It wasn’t fooling Rose, but she was a good friend and she allowed him to feign ignorance for now. “Where should we go for lunch?”

That got Shane’s attention. He looked over toward Rose. “Lunch?”

“Yeah. We both know you’re not really working, and since we’re going to keep ignoring the elephant in the room, we should go out. Pick a place, my treat, be ready in thirty minutes.”

He wanted to argue — of course he wanted to argue, he wouldn’t be one of the top corporate lawyers in Québec if he didn’t want to argue — but instead Shane sighed and gave into Rose’s reasoning, closing his laptop and standing up from the sofa while she turned to get her coffee that had finished brewing. She turned around, smiling with the quiet satisfaction of a point already settled in her favor. Shane couldn’t help giving her a small smile back. 

***

The café sat just far enough off the main street that the noise never reached it. Shane had chosen it for that. Not convenience, not proximity. The quiet.

He had been there before. Enough times to know exactly what it would feel like when he walked in. Nothing about it surprised him now. That was part of the point.

Inside, the space held the same steady warmth he remembered. Light wood, clean lines, nothing crowded or overly styled. Every table placed with enough distance to avoid overlap, enough separation that conversations stayed contained. He had noticed that the first time and had not forgotten it.

The lighting was the same, too. Soft, filtered through sheer curtains that turned the early afternoon into something more controlled, more even. No harsh brightness, no sharp contrast. It made the room easier to sit in, easier to focus without distraction.

It was quiet in the way he expected. Not empty, but measured. Conversations stayed low, never spilling over. No sudden interruptions, no raised voices. Just a consistent, ambient hum that never demanded attention.

The staff moved the same way they always did. Efficient, unobtrusive. Orders taken without delay, water refilled before it became noticeable. It ran cleanly. Predictably.

The menu hadn’t changed much. That was another reason he came back. It was intentional without being excessive. Familiar dishes, done well, nothing that required explanation or risk. He didn’t have to think about it. He already knew what he would order.

He sat across from Rose, both still ignoring the damned elephant. As they ate, they talked about work, because office gossip was easy. They talked about hockey, because were you really Canadian if you didn’t talk about hockey at least once in a twenty four hour period when your team was fighting for a wildcard spot in the playoffs? They talked about going out to his cabin for Victoria Day like they did every year since Rose had made partner. It felt easy. It was easy. 

Rose paid when the check came, and they said goodbye outside of the café with a hug and a quick peck. “It’s your turn to bring coffee tomorrow,” she reminded him as she got into the car she’d called. Shane nodded to that and waved to her, only turning to walk back toward his apartment once the car had driven away from the curb. His phone was burning a hole through his pocket on the walk home, but Shane refused to look at it. It felt like looking for the notification was an “inside” activity. It was private, and if he looked while walking along the sunny sidewalk, everyone else who was also walking would know what he was looking for. Maybe he should be considering therapy instead of a matchmaker.

Inside his apartment, Shane slipped his shoes off and set them in their place in the shoe rack just inside his door. He hung his jacket up and then forced himself to take care of the guest room. Rose had left the space immaculate, and she was the only one who ever stayed there, but he always went behind her to strip and wash the sheets and towels because she deserved to have fresh linens when she stayed. All the while, Rose’s warning from the night before rang in Shane’s head. The openings for new clients wouldn’t last, and he knew that if he was as determined as his lists said he was, he needed to bite the bullet and look at his phone. 

Finally, with the washer filling and the room bare, there was nothing else to distract himself with. Shane went to the sofa and pulled his phone out. On his lock screen there was a notification from Instagram. Trusted Circle had accepted his follow request. Shane drew in a deep breath and slowly blew it out through his mouth. His hands were shaking a little as he unlocked his phone and opened the app. When he clicks on the account, their bio is as minimal as their posts.

Private Client List

By referral only

Discretion is assumed

Intent is required

Limited availability

♡

Shane scrolled through the grid of past posts. The grid was sparse but deliberate, each post nearly identical in tone and composition. Soft gray backgrounds, heavy paper, the occasional wax seal, text kept to a few restrained lines. Nothing explained what they did, only implied it. The posts read like statements more than invitations, controlled and consistent, with no comments and minimal visible engagement. It did not look inactive. It looked maintained, quietly, like it was not meant to grow. Scrolling back up, Shane tapped on the message button. He thought for a moment before typing out his message, and once it was on his screen, Shane read it over three times. 

Referred by Rose Landry. Interested in discreet consultation. Available at your convenience.

It matched the tone of the profile and posts. It didn’t give too much but it was very clear and up front. Shane clicked send before he could think too hard. 

***

The response didn’t come until Tuesday. Shane checked his messages once while eating lunch and once while lying in bed on Monday with nothing there to greet him. On Tuesday at lunch, though, there was a little red bubble telling him something had changed. He didn’t hesitate to click into his inbox to read the message that had been sent several hours prior. The tone matched his: short and direct. 

Referral confirmed. Availability this week. Provide two windows.

He immediately went to his calendar to look at what he had. His position was high enough that he had flexibility, which was proving to be valuable here. Shane typed out windows for Wednesday afternoon or Friday mid-morning. Not too soon, too eager, but also not the last thing on his calendar for the week which could signify he wasn’t serious. He sent the message before he could think about if he was replying too quickly and put his phone away to get back to work.

Shane checked his phone more often throughout the day. Writing briefs took him twice as long as it usually did. He lost track of conversations with clients he was on calls with. Blank email replies sat up on his screen for unknown minutes when before today, they were always typed and sent within seconds. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until Rose kicked him in a partners meeting that afternoon. He put his phone away then, resolved to not look at it again until he got home. 

It was late when Shane got home. Well, later than usual. Shane undressed first, following his usual routine. It helped him feel more settled. When he was finally on the sofa with a cup of hot tea, he finally checked his Instagram messages again. 

Confirmed. Wednesday, 4:30 PM. Location will be provided prior.

Shane let out a slow, measured breath. Something settled. It was as if the first step was complete now, and they were onto the next step. He’d been accepted into one of the slots. He was at least being considered, being offered a meeting tomorrow afternoon. Shane pulled up his calendar and blocked off his entire afternoon. He didn’t know how long it would take and he didn’t want to feel rushed. 

***

When Shane checks his phone around three thirty the next afternoon, there’s a message with just an address. He put it into his navigation app which tells him the restaurant is called Room Seven and that it’s about twenty minutes from his office. He set an alarm for four o’clock and went back to his work until the alarm went off. When it did, Shane shut everything down, packed his briefcase with the case files he’d need to work on at home to make up for the missed office time, and left the office while calling the car service that was at his disposal as part of his compensation package.

The restaurant is intimate, warm, and slightly upscale without being overly formal. It’s the kind of place designed for quiet conversation rather than crowds.

The lighting is dim, with most of the glow coming from small table lamps and soft ambient sources. Everything is cast in a low, golden light that feels cozy. Shadows stay soft, and nothing is harsh or distracting. The atmosphere feels intentionally subdued, like it’s meant to hold conversations rather than compete with them.

Tables are small and spaced just close enough to feel intimate without becoming crowded. The layout suggests a quieter environment, one where voices stay low and the room never quite fills with noise.

The design pulls from warm, modern industrial elements. Exposed brick lines the walls, softened by warm materials and minimal decor. There might be a framed piece here or there, but nothing that draws too much attention. The space stays focused on the people in it rather than the surroundings.

Each table is set simply but with intention. A small lamp acts as a centerpiece, casting a soft pool of light over clean glassware and an uncluttered surface. 

In a corner booth is a woman who is clearly the matchmaker. She is tall, thin. She’s in a fitted black midi dress. Shane can tell it’s impeccably tailored, even though she’s sitting. 

She’s sitting with the kind of posture that did not need adjusting once she settled into it. One arm resting lightly along the back of the booth, the other near the table, fingers relaxed but precise, like every placement had been decided before she made it.

The low, golden light caught along the clean lines of her black dress, softening it without dulling it. The fabric fell smoothly, structured but not rigid, the kind of piece that held its shape without effort. Her heels were visible when she shifted slightly, one foot angled just enough to suggest intention rather than movement.

Her hair was styled neatly, falling in controlled waves that stayed in place even as she turned her head. Nothing about her looked accidental. Not her posture, not her expression, not the way she occupied the space.

The small lamp at the center of the table cast a soft glow across her features, leaving the edges of her silhouette in shadow. It made her feel contained within her own pool of light, separate from the rest of the room without being removed from it.

She was not looking around, not taking in the restaurant the way someone unfamiliar might. Her attention stayed forward, steady, as if she had already assessed everything that mattered the moment she sat down. There was nothing overtly intimidating about her. No sharpness, no visible tension. Just a quiet certainty that she was exactly where she intended to be, and entirely in control of it.

Shane moved forward toward the table and she smiled when he got close. “Shane. I’m Julia. Sit.” Shane sat opposite Julia, focusing all of his attention on not fidgeting. When the server came over, Shane ordered a ginger ale while Julia ordered sparkling water and then made small talk until their drinks arrived. Once they did, she got down to business. “Tell me why you’re here, Shane.”

He’d been expecting the question, but Shane still paused to find the words he wanted. He didn’t want to seem desperate, like this was a decision he made in a quick moment of hurt. Shane also had a strong gut feeling that any deceit would quickly disqualify him from working with Julia. “I’ve spent the last few years trying to approach this in a way that is supposed to work. Dating, taking time, letting things develop naturally. It doesn’t ever work out. I want something stable, a process where the expectations are clear from the start on both sides. I want to know that the other person wants the same thing from the outset.”

Julia didn’t take notes, but she watched him as he spoke. Her expression remained open and non-judgmental as she nodded in response. She didn’t say anything right away. She studied him, clearly taking in what he’d said as she sipped her drink. Shane shifted then, a little uncomfortable at being under such silent scrutiny. 

When Julia did speak, it wasn’t what Shane was expecting to hear. “You will have to fill out a comprehensive questionnaire. It will be sent to you via encrypted email. I’ll use your answers to determine if I want to move forward with you as a client.” That gave Shane pause. He thought he’d already been accepted as a client, but he supposed that what Julia was saying made sense. Julia continued, “If I choose to continue, you will schedule an appointment with the psychologist I contract with.”

“Psychologist?”

“Yes.” The answer wasn’t short or clipped, but firm and direct. “I need to make sure that you are psychologically sound. This is not a simple date, Shane. You are legally tying your life to another person’s for a not insignificant period of time. I need to be sure that you understand those risks, that you are emotionally able to make that decision, and that you will be able to handle the fall out if the relationship does not work out at the end of the year.”

“What is your success rate?” he asked.

“I maintain a limited client list. I do not take on clients I do not expect to place successfully.” A pause. “Most of my clients proceed to marriage.”

"And of those marriages, how many succeed?" Shane asked again. Pushed.

"Of those marriages, the majority remain intact at least several years out." Shane nodded and Julia waited, as if expecting him to push more. He didn’t. “If the psychologist clears you, you will pay my fee in full and sign the confidentiality agreement. That is when we will get into the finer details of what you’re looking for in a partner. Once I have that information, your job will be done and I will work to find you a match.”

“What is that timeline?”

“I don’t guarantee one. It could be days, it could be months. But I won’t accept you as a client if I don’t think I could feasibly find you a match within my client list.” 

“And the process once a match is made?” Shane asked.

“You both have forty eight hours to decide if you want to proceed. If you don’t, we part ways and don’t work together. If you do, I will set up appointments with a tailor and a jeweler for you, and you will be married seven days from the day you both agree. But you’re getting ahead of yourself.” Julia motioned to the server who brought their bill. She handed over cash to cover their drinks. “The initial assessment will be in your email by tonight. Send it back and we’ll go from there. It was very nice to meet you, Shane.”

Shane stood as Julia stood. “It was nice to meet you, Julia. Thank you.”

***

Just as Julia said, there was an email in Shane’s inbox by that evening. The password to open the encrypted email was in his Instagram inbox. Just a jumble of numbers and symbols and letters, some capitalized and some not. Shane sat with his laptop and typed the password carefully, then opened the file. It was definitely comprehensive. It covered the basics, but also had more in depth questions that told Shane he wouldn’t be getting any work done tonight.

Shane begins to answer the questions, the easy ones first. His name (Shane David Hollander), date of birth (May 10, 1991), occupation (corporate lawyer), income (mid to high six figures), languages he speaks (English, French, and the halfway decent Russian he's been learning from the first client he ever landed at the firm). They’re all simple and require little to no thought. Other questions, like his sleep habits or how to describe his personal style in three words take more time to craft an answer. His sleep is erratic, at best. It depends heavily on his work schedule and his client load. Shane will have months where he will average four or five hours of sleep each night, and then a stretch where he averages six to seven hours. His style, too, is heavily influenced by his career. He wears suits. Period. Everywhere he goes, he wears a suit, unless it’s to the gym or to bed or to his cabin. After staring at that question for what felt like hours, Shane finally gave in and picked up his phone. He sent the question to Rose, replacing the word “your” with “my”. Her response was instant, and it didn’t contain any questions. He didn’t think about the fact that she would be saving those for tomorrow. He typed in her answer. 

Controlled, precise, understated.

Shane worked through the questions one by one, giving each one its due thought and care. The questionnaire took hours to complete, and when he was finally done, Shane was emotionally exhausted. He went back through to re-read everything, making sure that there were no typos and his answers were clear. Only when he was absolutely sure of every single answer on the form did Shane save it, click “reply” to the email, and attach the form. Shane paused again, grounding himself in the moment. For him, there was no going back once he clicked send. Julia had explained that there were multiple ways he could back out between now and actually getting married, but Shane felt like sending this form was his commitment. If he sent it, he was saying to himself that he was all in. He needed to be sure. 

He went over his lists in his head one more time. Nothing changed. Everything he wrote on Saturday night was still the same. He still felt the same way and Shane still thought that engaging in this endeavor was his best way forward. 

Shane clicked send.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two - Ilya

Chapter Notes

I do not know Russian. Anything in bold italics is being spoken in Russian because I refuse to butcher a language that I don’t speak, and that I don’t have a beta for. The only things I kept in Cyrillic were Alexei's and Svetlana's names when they were calling Ilya.

Ilya moved in micro-movements. Millimeters, fractions. They weren’t something a layperson would notice or would think significant, but in this industry, they were the difference between a paycheck and never being hired to work with the designer or the magazine or the photographer again. Any one of those could end your career. 

“Chin down just… That’s right.” He’d more breathed out than tilted his chin, but that had been the story of his career, and it had worked thus far. He was going to continue to do it. “Perfect, Ilya. That’s a wrap, thank you.” He finally felt able to breathe. Ilya shook his limbs out, stretched his shoulders and his neck, careful of the set and the clothes. 

He stepped off the mark before anyone told him to, already shrugging out of the jacket as he walked. He handed it off behind him without looking.

“Careful,” Ilya said, pushing open the dressing room door. “That one was expensive.”

Cliff was already inside, leaning against the counter with his tablet. “It’s all expensive,” Cliff said. “You’re not special.”

Ilya smirked, moving past him. He started undoing the buttons of his shirt, unhurried. “What do you have?”

Cliff glanced down at the screen. “You’re losing sleep tonight. Flight at six. Car at four-thirty.”

“That is offensive,” Ilya said.

“That’s your schedule,” Cliff replied.

Ilya let the shirt fall to the chair and reached for a t-shirt instead. “Cancel it.”

“No.”

“Reschedule it.”

“No.”

Ilya pulled the shirt over his head, dragging a hand through his hair. “You are inflexible.”

“You’re late,” Cliff said. “Consistently.”

“By design.”

“Not a real thing.”

Ilya turned slightly toward the mirror, adjusting nothing. “What else?”

Cliff scrolled.

“Milan. Fitting at noon. Show the next day. Two castings you’ll pretend not to care about and then absolutely care about.”

“I do not care about them,” Ilya said.

“You care about winning,” Cliff replied.

Ilya smiled at that, quick and easy. “Obviously.”

Cliff tapped the screen again. “You’ve got three dinners scheduled.”

“Cancel two.”

“I already did.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones you’d hate.”

Ilya glanced over at him, approving. “See. This is why I keep you.”

“You keep me because you’d forget where you’re supposed to be,” Cliff said.

“I would not forget.”

“You would ignore it.”

“That is different.”

Cliff didn’t argue.

A brief pause settled between them. Ilya reached for a jacket, something more casual, and shrugged it on.

Cliff watched him for a second. “You ever think about doing something normal?”

Ilya laughed immediately. “No.”

“Like actually dating someone.”

“I date people.”

“You rotate people.”

“That is… What is English word? Smart. Simple.”

“Efficient,” Cliff supplied.

“Da. Efficient.”

Cliff tilted his head. “You’re going to run out of new ones eventually.”

Ilya picked up his phone, already half-distracted. “That sounds like future problem.”

“Everything’s a future problem,” Cliff said. “Until it isn’t.”

Ilya glanced up, amused. “You sound concerned.”

“I’m bored,” Cliff said. “You’re predictable.”

“That is not true.”

Cliff raised an eyebrow. “You meet someone, you like them for about a week, then you disappear.”

Ilya slipped his phone into his pocket and moved toward the door. “That is not pattern.”

“That’s a system,” Cliff said.

Ilya smiled, unconcerned. “It works.”

Cliff pushed off the counter and followed. “Yeah,” Cliff said. “For now. Your bags are in the car. We’re going straight to the airport.”

“Is not four thirty,” Ilya pointed out. “I have date.” 

“No,” Cliff argued. “It’s almost four o’clock. The car is going to be here soon, Ilya, you can’t go on a date for half an hour.”

Ilya just shrugged and continued walking out of the building. “I cannot cancel, Marley. I do not want to be rude.” He smirked at Cliff and winked, turning left toward where he was set to meet his date. 

Cliff called after him. “Ilya! Get back here, you bastard!” 

Ilya laughed and kept walking. He was aware of the paparazzi across the street, they were always around now looking for pictures of him with the next girl. Ilya didn’t care, because that was the image he’d carefully built for himself. The brands who wanted to work with him were looking to appeal to the younger crowd with sex appeal, and Ilya exuded it. He liked to have fun and to feel good. Yes, with both genders, but he was careful with men. Secret. His passport was Russian, and with traveling for work, he needed to play nice with the Russian government. He was only ever photographed with women. If he wanted to sleep with a man, Cliff would arrange something discreet that started with a signature on an NDA so iron clad that even thinking about breathing a word about the encounter to the press was actionable. Was it boring? Yes. But it had worked, so Ilya wasn’t going to fuck with it.

 He met with his date, Alisa, just a few blocks from his own photoshoot. They met up often, and any time they did, the headlines of the gossip magazines ran rampant with speculation about whether or not they were “on” or “off”, whether they were “just friends”, if they were seen together as a “PR stunt”. It amused Ilya and he made Cliff buy him all of the magazines so he could read them on the long plane rides and laugh. He kissed her, long enough for a few photographs to be taken and deep enough for there to be wild speculation about what it all meant. She rolled her eyes at him and linked her arm through his as they made their way into the Ritz-Carlton just another half a block up. 

Ilya didn’t make it back to the car until ten to five. Cliff was standing next to it looking very much not amused as Ilya sauntered up like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sorry.” Cliff didn’t say anything, he just opened the back car door for Ilya and gestured for him to get in. Ilya grinned at his friend as he slid into the back seat.

The flight was spent mostly sleeping, but he studied for the castings, too. He had worked with these directors before. They were opposites of each other, they wanted different things from him and Ilya needed to be those things before he walked through their doors. Marc likes control, strength. He’s efficient. You walk once and you’re done, and you might not have even seen Marc glance up at you. But he knows what he likes, and he’s booked Ilya many times over the years. Marc’s casting is first, and Ilya is glad for it. 

Alessia is more expressive. She watches you from the moment you walk in, assessing your personality through your movement. She wants versatility. Alessia told Ilya the only reason she ever booked him for his first job was because she saw him horsing around with Cliff outside of the casting before he came inside in his serious model face, and she knew that he could fit into an endless list of concepts. He likes her — professionally, of course — and always enjoys her castings, even if he gives Cliff a hard time about them. Cliff wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Ilya didn’t give him a hard time.

When they landed, Ilya turned his phone on immediately. It's a habit to check his emails after such a long flight. Twenty seven missed calls from Alexei. That was excessive, even for his brother who only called him to demand money each time a new campaign of Ilya’s came out. A pit began to form in Ilya’s stomach. Something terrible must have happened. Their father died years ago, so it wasn’t that. His niece? That was really the only thing that Ilya could think of that would cause his brother to call him so many times. He was about to tuck his phone into his pocket, and resolved to call Alexei when they got to the hotel, but it buzzed in his hand and Алексей flashed on the screen. Ilya dropped back from Cliff and the rest of the crowd. 

“Alexei. What is wrong? Why did you call so many times?” Ilya answered, trying to keep his voice low. They were in Italy, yes, but he was still in public and in a busy airport. The last thing he needed was a scandal.

There was a scoff on the other end of the line. “You think you can do whatever you want just because you’re not in Russia anymore? You think you’re too good to have to follow our laws?” Alexei spat.

Ilya was taken aback by the vitriol in Alexei’s voice. No, they never got along but this was pure hatred, and it was in a form Ilya hadn’t ever heard from his brother before. There was ice forming in the pit of his belly from it. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb! The pictures are all over the news!”

His entire body froze. Pictures? Ilya immediately pulled his phone from his ear and tapped on the browser, searching his name even as he kept walking. The first search results almost made him drop his phone. 

TMZ’s headline: “Ilya Rozanov Spotted at Private Dinner with Mystery Man—Caught Brushing Hands Across the Table”

Page Six's headline: “Ilya Rozanov Seen Sharing Intimate Dinner with Mystery Man—Subtle Touch Sparks Questions”

Daily Mail's headline: “Ilya Rozanov Photographed Dining with Male Companion as Pair Share Tender Hand Touch During Low-Key Night In”

People's headline: “Ilya Rozanov Spotted at Dinner with Male Companion—Small Moment Between Them Draws Attention”

He was going to puke. Right there, in the middle of the airport, Ilya was going to vomit. He remembered this night. It wasn’t anything like what the gossip rags were making it out to be. He was too careful for that. This was a colleague, truly. Perhaps he’d brushed hands with him, Ilya didn’t remember, but this… This was nothing. 

“Ilya!” Alexei’s yelling drew Ilya’s attention back to the phone call, and despite knowing better, he brought the phone back up to his ear. “I can make this go away, Ilya,” Alexei half cooed. It made Ilya’s skin crawl. “I have connections. Important ones. All you need to do is send the money and I will make sure you do not become stranded in a foreign country.”

Ilya blanched. He was in a foreign country, and he was here for at least the next three days. Two, if Cliff could get him out of that damned dinner. “I don’t keep that kind of money in liquid assets, Alexei, and it’s the weekend. I need until Tuesday to wire everything.” He fought to keep his tone controlled and tight, to not give anything away. All he was focused on was getting back into the States before Russia cancelled his passport.

“Tuesday morning.”

“Yes.” 

The line went dead and Ilya breathed out a long, ragged breath as he and Cliff got into the waiting car. The car pulled away from the airport smoothly, the city still half-muted in the early morning light. Ilya leaned back into the seat, sunglasses on, head angled toward the window. He was texting his immigration lawyer while Cliff spoke. Need to speak. Urgent. When are you available? Ilya tucked his phone away and turned his full attention back to Cliff.

Cliff didn’t look up from his tablet. “Hotel, quick turn,” Cliff said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Shower, change, coffee if you’re lucky.”

Ilya didn’t move. “I am always lucky.”

Cliff ignored that. “First out is Prada. Eleven o’clock. Fitting, not casting.”

Ilya made a quiet sound, somewhere between acknowledgment and disinterest. 

“Be serious,” Cliff added. “They want you controlled. No attitude.”

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly. “I have no attitude.”

“Not the one you like,” Cliff said.

A brief pause.

“After that, casting at one. Etro. In and out, low commitment, still competitive.”

“I do not need to compete for Etro.”

“You do today.”

Ilya shifted, just slightly, like he was settling deeper into the seat. “What else?”

“Two o’clock, second casting. Sunnei. They’ll make you do something weird.”

“I will not do something weird.”

“You will,” Cliff said. “You’ll hate it and then you’ll do it perfectly.”

Ilya didn’t argue that.

Cliff scrolled. “Three-thirty, fitting with Zegna. This one matters.”

“They all matter.”

“This one matters to you,” Cliff corrected. “It’s clean, tailored, exactly your thing when you’re pretending you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Ilya exhaled softly through his nose. Not disagreement.

“And then,” Cliff continued, “you get an hour.”

“For what.”

“Rest. Pretending you’re not exhausted. Whatever you do in hotel rooms.”

Ilya turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him. “You say that like you don’t know.”

“I choose not to know,” Cliff said. Another scroll. “Seven-thirty. Dinner. You are going.”

“I can skip it.”

“You won’t,” Cliff said. “It’s tied to Versace. They like you. Keep it that way.”

Ilya’s attention sharpened slightly at that, subtle but there. “Of course they do.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I am never late.”

Cliff didn’t look up. “You are always late.”

“By design.”

“Not a real thing.”

A beat.

The car turned, sunlight shifting across the interior. Ilya reached up, adjusting his sunglasses, more habit than necessity.

Cliff glanced at the screen one last time. “That’s the day. It’s tight.”

“It is fine.”

“It is not fine,” Cliff said. “It’s Milan.”

Ilya smiled, easy, unconcerned. “It is always fine.”

***

The hotel sits just off one of the central streets, close enough to everything that nothing feels out of reach, but tucked back enough to avoid attention. From the outside, it is understated. Pale stone, tall windows, nothing loud. The kind of place that does not advertise itself because it does not need to.

Inside, everything is controlled. Cool marble floors softened by rugs that look effortless but are not. Lighting kept low, warm but precise. The staff move quietly, efficient without being visible for too long. It feels expensive, but not in a way that asks to be noticed. Just assumed.

Ilya barely registers most of it on the way in. He has stayed in places like this before. It all blends into the same category. Predictable. Functional.

The room is large, but not showy. Clean lines, neutral tones. A king bed centered against a wall upholstered in something soft and muted. Crisp white sheets that look untouched. The kind of bed that is reset perfectly every time he leaves it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows let in a washed, gray morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that move slightly when the window is cracked. The city is there, but distant. He can see rooftops, a narrow street below, movement without noise.

There is a seating area he won’t use. A low table, two chairs angled toward each other like a conversation is supposed to happen there. It won’t.

His suitcase is already placed where it should be. Clothes hung or folded before he had to think about them. Shoes lined up with a precision that feels like someone else’s idea of order.

The bathroom is brighter. Stone, glass, clean edges. Everything arranged exactly once and never moved out of place. Towels folded too precisely to be casual. Ilya got undressed and started the shower. He could feel the tension sitting in his neck and shoulders, and he needed to be rid of it for the castings and fittings. He turned the water as hot as it would go before stepping under the spray. 

He lets the thoughts he’s been suppressing all morning run through his head now. Ilya has no intention of paying Alexei if he can help it, but he has to be practical. Milan is the first stop of many in the next several months across Europe, Asia, and South America. He needed his passport to stay intact. Ilya hated to be in limbo, waiting for Svetlana to call him back, but there was nothing he could do until she did. And when she did, there would likely be at least one “I told you so” in there. She had been telling him for months to finish filling out the application for his green card, but winter fashion weeks had been going on and he didn’t have the mental wherewithal to do it. Even if he filed now, Ilya knew it could take years for the application to process. And it wasn’t a guarantee. 

Ilya groaned. His head felt heavy. He couldn’t stand there and think about this anymore. He had to turn off his brain and become the model that everyone expected him to be. After turning the water off, Ilya dried off and stepped out of the shower stall. He completed his grooming: hair styled into loose, perfect curls and a touch of undetectable concealer beneath his eyes to hide the dark circles that transatlantic travel always gave to him. Walking out into the main room, Ilya dressed in a black t-shirt, fitted but not tight, the fabric soft enough to move with him without losing its shape. It had a clean neckline, no branding, nothing to pull focus. Over it, he wore a lightweight jacket, structured just enough at the shoulders to give him a sharper line without looking styled.

He paired it with a pair of dark trousers, tailored but easy. Not formal, not casual. The kind of cut that made his proportions look deliberate without trying to show them off. They sat clean at the waist, fell straight through the leg, no break at the ankle.

His shoes were minimal. Black, polished but not glossy. Something he could walk in without thinking about it.

Ilya didn't wear accessories beyond what he always wore. His mother's chain and cross, mostly hidden. 

It wasn’t an outfit meant to stand out. It was meant to disappear just enough that when he walked into a room, the only thing anyone really saw was him.

***

The Prada space was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. No excess movement, no raised voices. Racks spaced evenly. Assistants speaking low, if at all.

Ilya stepped onto the platform without being asked. He’d done this a million times. He knew how to make everyone’s job easier.

“Look three,” someone said.

The jacket was placed on him, hands already adjusting before it settled. Fingers at the shoulder, the waist, the sleeve. Pins appeared without comment.

“Stand straight.”

He did.

“Relax your face.”

He didn’t change anything. It was already neutral.

“Walk.”

He stepped down, slow, measured. Shorter stride. Controlled. The fabric moved cleanly, exactly as it was meant to.

“Again.”

Ilya turned, repeated it. Same pace. Same restraint.

A small nod. “Yes.”

Nothing more. The jacket was taken off him as quickly as it had been put on.

“Next.”

Ilya stepped away without looking back.

***

Marc Delon sat behind the table, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours.

Ilya walked in, didn’t rush it, didn’t drag it out. Just enough presence to register.

“Walk,” Marc said, not looking up.

Ilya did.

No instruction. No adjustment. Just observation.

Marc’s eyes lifted halfway through, tracking him for a second longer than necessary. Then back down. “Turn.”

Ilya turned.

“Again.”

He repeated it, same ease, same control.

Marc tapped something on the table. “Fine.”

That was it.

No feedback. No indication of anything beyond that single word.

Ilya stepped out without breaking rhythm.

***

The room was louder. Not chaotic, but faster. People moving, talking, adjusting.

Alessia Rinaldi looked up as Ilya walked in, already assessing him before he stopped.

“Too controlled,” she said immediately. “I don’t want that.”

Ilya didn’t react.

“Walk.”

He did.

“Stop.”

He stopped.

“Again, but less perfect.”

A beat. Ilya walked again, this time letting the movement loosen slightly. Not sloppy. Just less precise.

Alessia watched closely. “Better,” she said. “Now turn like you’re bored.”

“I am bored,” Ilya said.

A flicker of a smile from her. “Good. Show me that.”

He turned again, slower this time. Less sharp. More careless.

“Again.”

He adjusted again, subtle shifts. Letting it look unintentional.

Alessia nodded once. “Okay.”

She didn’t dismiss him. Just moved on.

That was enough.

***

The Zegna space was quieter than the others. Not silent, but contained. Focused.

“Here,” someone said, handing him the pieces.

He changed quickly. The fabric sat differently. Heavier. More structured. Cleaner. When he stepped out, they didn’t rush him.

“Stand.”

He did.

A hand at the shoulder. Another at the waist. Small adjustments, precise.

“Walk.”

He stepped forward. Longer stride this time. More natural. Less restraint than Prada, more control than Sunnei.

“Again.”

He repeated it. The jacket moved with him, not against him. The line was clean. Intentional.

Someone stepped closer. Looked, then nodded. “Yes.” No elaboration. The pins came out. Notes were written. “Rehearsal tomorrow.”

Ilya changed back, slower this time.

***

Cliff was waiting when he stepped out. “That went well,” Cliff said.

“It was fine.”

“You like this one.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. Then, evenly: “It works.”

Back in the car there was a text from Svetlana, confirming a time for a call just around when they’ll be back at the hotel. Ilya responded and settled for the ride back while Cliff  went over the details about dinner again. 

Once in his room, Ilya closed the door and put on the safety lock. He never did before, but he felt like he needed the extra security now. Just as he sat on the edge of the bed, his phone rant, Светлана flashing on the screen. Ilya answered, voice tired and defeated now that he was done with work for the day. He went over the phone call with his brother, the headlines, and his dilemma. “I am in Milan, I have bookings all over the world for the next six months. I cannot be without a passport.”

“Okay.” Ilya can hear Svetlana take a breath through the phone, clearly composing her thoughts. “Citizenship through traditional channels is going to take time, Ilya. We knew this.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Yes, that’s very clear. So now we have to go the unconventional route. I’m going to introduce you to someone who can help. You have to be open minded.”

That sounded ominous to Ilya. “What do you mean?”

“They’re a matchmaker. Very exclusive, very expensive, they only take referrals, and if they find you a match, then you get married. No dating, no drawn out relationships.”

It wasn’t what Ilya was expecting to hear, and his first instinct was to tell Svetlana that she was out of her mind. Ilya’s mouth was open to form the words before he stopped himself to think. What choice did he have? There was only one other path to citizenship, and that took years to get a response. “And if they don’t find me a match?”

“Do not borrow trouble. Keep an eye on your Instagram. When you get their follow request, follow back immediately and send them a message. Tell them I referred you and request a consultation. They’re accepting new clients now, but won’t be for very long. Be honest with them, Ilya.” 

They spoke about a few more logistics and hung up. Ilya went into his phone’s settings and turned on his notifications for follow requests. They would be annoying for the night, but he didn’t want to miss this opportunity. 

By the time he had finished processing the conversation with Svetlana, it was time to get ready for the Versace dinner. 

He crossed to the wardrobe, already knowing what Cliff would have pulled. Black, mostly.

He took the shirt first. Silk, soft, the kind that caught the light without looking like it was trying to. The collar open, not deep, just enough to suggest it. He buttoned it slowly, leaving the top two undone.

Trousers next. Tailored, clean, cut close through the leg. They sat exactly where they were supposed to without adjustment.

The jacket was sharper. Structured at the shoulders, slightly more fitted through the waist. It changed his posture the second he put it on. Not formal. Not casual. Just deliberate.

He considered the mirror, not for long. Smoothed the fabric once at the front.

Accessories were minimal. The thin chain, visible now against the open collar. The watch he didn’t check. No rings.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, undoing the shape it had settled into earlier. Letting it fall into something less controlled, more him.

The phone buzzed. He picked it up without thinking. A notification. Instagram. @trustedcircle_ has requested to follow you. He looked at it for a second longer than necessary. No posts visible. Private account. No profile picture that meant anything. He accepted, paused for a beat, then followed back.

Ilya didn’t sit down. He didn’t hesitate long enough for it to register as hesitation. He opened the message and typed.

Referred by Svetlana. Currently in Milan for work. Available for consultation by phone or Zoom if preferred.

He read it once. Sent it.

The phone went face down on the table.

He adjusted his sleeve, checked nothing in the mirror, and left.

***

The restaurant was louder than the other spaces he’d been in that day, but only slightly. Controlled noise. Movement without chaos.

Someone was already waiting for him when he arrived. Not alone. They rarely were.

“Ilya,” one of them said, standing.

He smiled easily, stepping in, shaking hands, leaning in just enough. Familiar. Polished.

“You made it.”

“Of course.”

They sat. Wine was already being poured.

The conversation started immediately. It always did.

Work first.

“You were good today,” someone said. “Prada especially.”

“I am always good,” Ilya said, without looking up from the glass in front of him.

A laugh. Expected.

“Versace will be stronger,” another added. “More… you.”

Ilya glanced at them then, something sharper in his expression, just for a second. “Maybe.”

They watched him differently after that. Not questioning, just noting.

Plates arrived. Food he didn’t think about, didn’t need to. He ate enough to be seen doing it.

The conversation shifted. Names, shows, who was in, who wasn’t. He responded where needed, let the rest pass.

At some point, his phone lit up again on the table. He didn’t pick it up immediately. Let it sit. Let the moment pass. Then, casually, like he was checking nothing important, he turned it over. A message from the account. He didn’t open it fully. Not yet. Ilya set the phone back down, screen dark again. Across from him, someone was talking about casting lists, about final decisions. 

Ilya nodded once, listening, already somewhere else. Not visibly, just enough that if someone was paying attention, they might notice the pause before he answered. “Of course,” he said, like he hadn’t missed anything at all.

***

The day blurred. Rehearsal, waiting, hands on him, voices giving direction he didn’t need to think about. He moved where he was told to move, stopped where he was told to stop. The rhythm of it was familiar enough that it didn’t require his full attention. By the time the show ended, there was nothing left to prove. He had already done it.

The afterparty was louder than the rest of the day, but easier. People talking at him instead of watching him. He stayed long enough to be seen, not long enough to be remembered.

Cliff didn’t argue when he said he was leaving.

“Back at the hotel,” Cliff said. “You’re up early tomorrow.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say anything else.

***

The room was quiet when he got back. Ilya closed the door, set his phone on the table, and stood there for a moment without moving. The silence felt different after the day. Less like rest, more like space.

The message was still there. He opened it this time. It was short.

Tomorrow. 9 AM your time. Confirm.

He checked the time automatically. It was late. Not ideal, but not a problem. He typed back: Confirmed.

The response came faster this time.

This will be brief.

He didn’t reply to that.

***

The call came exactly at nine. No delay. No notification beyond the screen lighting up with an unknown number. He answered immediately.

“Ilya Rozanov.”

A pause.

“Julia.” Her voice was even. Not cold, not warm. Just precise. “You were referred by Svetlana.”

“Da. Yes.”

Another pause, shorter this time. Like something had already been confirmed. “You understand the nature of my work.”

“I do.”

“Then you understand that I do not proceed without clarity.”

“I am clear.”

Silence. Not empty. Measured. “Why are you here,” she asked.

Ilya crossed the room slowly, stopping near the window. The city moved below him, distant, irrelevant. “I need a solution.”

“That is not specific.”

He glanced at his reflection in the glass. Not really looking at it. “I need stability,” he said. “Something that is not dependent on my work. Or anyone else’s decisions.”

“And you believe marriage provides that.”

“I know it does.”

Another pause. “You are not describing a partnership,” Julia said. “You are describing an outcome.”

“Yes.”

The word landed without hesitation.

Silence again, longer this time. “Most people attempt to make those the same thing,” she said.

“I am not most people.”

“No,” she agreed.

Ilya shifted slightly, his free hand resting against the edge of the table behind him. “I do not have time to approach this slowly,” he added. “I am not interested in… exploration.”

“And what are you interested in?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Something that works,” he said finally.

“Define that.”

“A stable arrangement. Aligned expectations. No ambiguity.”

“And the other person.”

“What about them?”

“They would be part of this.”

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “They would be chosen by you.”

“That is not an answer.”

He exhaled, quiet. “They would need to want the same outcome.”

Julia didn’t respond right away. “You are aware,” she said eventually, “that I do not place clients who are not prepared to remain in the arrangement.”

“Da. Yes.”

“This is not temporary.”

“I am not looking for temporary.”

“Your circumstances suggest otherwise.”

A beat. “They do not,” Ilya said.

The denial was clean. Controlled. Not defensive.

Another pause. Then: “You will provide documentation,” Julia said. “Background, schedule, expectations. I will determine if you are a viable client.”

Ilya straightened slightly. “And if I am?”

“You will receive terms.”

“And a match.”

“If one exists.”

Silence settled again. Ilya looked out at the city, the movement below, the distance between where he was and everything else. “Understood.”

The line stayed open for a second longer. Then: “I will be in touch.”

The call ended.

Ilya lowered the phone, not immediately moving. Then he set it down, just as precisely as he had picked it up. Nothing about the room had changed. But something had shifted. Not visibly, but just enough that the next decision would not feel like a question anymore.

***

An encrypted email came into his inbox as he settled into his seat the next morning. Ilya was nervous. He had to believe that Alexei hadn’t done anything to his passport yet. He still had twenty four hours before he was expecting money, and six of those would be spent over the Atlantic ocean. Drawing in a deep breath, Ilya waited to open the email until the flight attendant announced they could take out laptops. 

Cliff raised an eyebrow at Ilya when he pulled his own laptop out. It wasn’t often used. Ilya ignored him and opened the email from Julia. Like her, the questionnaire that is attached is detailed. Ilya scrolls through it to get a sense of the questions before he begins to answer them. Some, the ones that are easy and require no thought, he answers in English. The others, the ones that require him to dig deeper into himself, he switches to his Cyrillic keyboard and writes in Russian. It’s easier in some ways, and he found a translation app that is better than most that will do the heavy lifting when it’s time to translate his answers into English. 

Ilya spends the majority of the flight answering questions about himself and his motives and why he wants to be matched with someone he will marry the first time he meets them. When he types the final period, he feels emotionally wrung out, like someone twisted him around and around from his middle until he wouldn’t twist anymore. There’s only about an hour left in the flight, and while Ilya is tempted to put the computer away and put off the translation of the document, the fear of what possibly awaits him at the Logan Airport customs counter scares him. Rubbing his eyes, he opens the translation app and feeds the document through it. 

He’s just putting the final touches on the translation when the flight attendant calls for all electronics to be stowed. Ilya quickly taps reply to Julia’s email and attaches the form, clicking send and waiting to see that the email went through before he shuts his laptop down and puts it away as the plane begins its final descent into Boston.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three - Shane

Three days passed after Shane sent in the questionnaire. He hadn’t expected a quick response, so he went back to work without adjusting anything. Long days at the office, a few hours at home to sleep, then back again. It was familiar. Predictable. It kept his mind occupied.

When the message finally came through, it still caught him off guard.

Proceeding to assessment phase. Availability required within 48 hours.

Shane read it twice. Three times.

Assessment.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes drifting past his screen to the window behind it, Montreal spread out below him in clean, structured lines. It made sense. It had to. Julia wasn’t operating casually. There was liability involved. Risk. If she was pairing two people to marry, she needed to know they could handle it.

Still, his mind moved ahead of him, already breaking it down. What kind of assessment? What metrics? What questions? What, exactly, they would be looking for?

He checked his calendar, cleared the necessary time, and responded.

Then he did what he always did: He researched.

The next morning, another message came through. Time. Address. No additional explanation.

He copied the address into his browser. A converted house, from the look of it. Professional, but not clinical. It was registered to a Dr. Todd Ellis. Shane searched the name immediately.

LinkedIn came up first. He clicked on the link. Columbia. Harvard Medical School. Massachusetts General. McLean. Shane’s eyes moved quickly over the details, parsing them the same way he would a case file. Education, training, affiliations. Each piece slotting into place, building a picture. He scrolled to the About section and read more slowly this time.

Dr. Todd Ellis is a board-certified psychiatrist and clinical psychologist based in Montreal, specializing in high-level psychological and behavioral assessment. His work focuses on evaluating decision-making, personality structure, and long-term relational stability among high-functioning professionals and private clients. With training from Harvard Medical School and advanced work in forensic psychiatry, Dr. Ellis is known for a direct, structured approach that prioritizes clarity, discretion, and practical outcomes. He consults in high-stakes environments where understanding risk, compatibility, and sustained performance is essential.

Shane read over it again. It was direct, structured, outcome-focused. It aligned.

He exhaled quietly, tension easing just slightly. This wasn’t arbitrary. It wasn’t experimental in the way he had initially worried it might be. There was a system behind it, a framework.

“Hey!”

Shane jumped, the chair shifting under him as Rose’s voice cut through the room. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Hi.”

“You okay?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe, studying him.

“What? Yeah. Just in the middle of something.”

She didn’t move. Just kept looking at him.

Shane dropped his gaze back to the papers on his desk, straightening them even though they didn’t need it. “What’s up?”

Rose didn’t answer right away. That was never a good sign. “What’s going on with you?” she asked finally. “You’re acting… off. And don’t say nothing.”

Shane exhaled, sharper this time. “Come in and close the door.” He waited until she did, then gestured to the chair across from him. Rose sat, still watching him. Then he told her. Not all at once, not everything, but enough. The matchmaker. The meeting. The questionnaire. The message. 

By the time he finished, Rose was already shaking her head. “Oh, honey.”

Shane frowned. “What?”

“So you’re telling me,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “that you sat in front of this very expensive, very selective matchmaker and told her you want something stable and structured, with clear expectations.”

“Yes.”

“And you think that communicated everything.”

“It did,” Shane said, a little more firmly.

Rose just looked at him. “It didn’t,” she said.

Shane leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “That’s not all I said.”

“It’s what she heard,” Rose replied. “You made it sound like you’re outsourcing inconveniences.”

“That’s not—” Shane stopped, exhaled, and tried again. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitated. Just for a second. “I want something that works,” he said.

Rose didn’t look convinced.

“And,” he added, more quietly, “I want to fall in love.”

That shifted something. Rose’s expression softened, just slightly. “Okay,” she said. “There it is.”

Shane frowned. “That was implied.”

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t. You don’t get implied, Shane. You get literal.”

He sat with that. “It’s obvious,” he said after a moment.

“It’s not,” Rose said. “Not to someone who evaluates people for a living.”

He looked back at the screen, at the profile still open. “So what now?” he asked.

“You’re seeing the psychiatrist tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you tell him,” she said. “You clarify.”

Shane considered that, the same way he would any other risk, weighing it. “What if it looks inconsistent?” he asked. “What if she read it the way you did and then I said something different?”

Rose shrugged slightly. “Then you explain it.”

“That I didn’t communicate clearly the first time?”

“Yes.”

Shane exhaled. “I don’t like that.”

“I know,” she said.

He leaned back again, gaze drifting toward the window.

“But it’s still better than letting her think you don’t care about the person you’re marrying,” Rose added.

That landed and Shane nodded once, slow. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

***

The office was quiet in a way that didn’t feel staged. Nothing stood out. No obvious personal details, no clutter, no attempt to soften the space beyond what was necessary. It wasn’t cold. It just wasn’t trying to be anything else. Dr. Todd Ellis finished writing something before looking up.

“Mr. Hollander.”

“Dr. Ellis.”

They shook hands briefly, firm and efficient. Shane waited until Ellis sat before taking the chair angled across from him.

Ellis closed the file in front of him.“I’ve reviewed your intake,” he said. “This portion is evaluative. Not therapeutic.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Then we can be direct.” A pause. Not uncomfortable, just… intentional. “Why are you willing to marry someone you haven’t met?”

Shane didn’t answer immediately. His gaze settled just to the side of Ellis, not avoiding, not fixed. He was thinking. “I don’t think that’s the right way to frame it,” he said.

Ellis didn’t react to that. “Then reframe it.”

“It’s not random,” Shane said. “There’s a process behind it. A screening for compatibility. It’s not… impulsive.”

“And that makes it different.”

“Yes.”

“From what?”

“From how most people approach relationships,” Shane said. “Which is largely unstructured.”

Ellis made a small note. “You’ve participated in that.”

“Yes.”

“And it hasn’t worked.”

Shane shifted slightly, adjusting his position in the chair. “It hasn’t led to anything stable,” he said. “There’s a lot of time spent determining whether two people even want the same outcome.”

“And you find that inefficient.”

“I find it… uncertain,” Shane corrected. “You can invest months, years, without clarity.”

Ellis looked up. “And this gives you clarity.”

“It gives me a starting point,” Shane said. “It removes some of the ambiguity.”

“Not all of it, though.”

“No,” Shane agreed. “Not all of it.”

Ellis wrote something down, then set his pen aside. “What are you hoping for?”

Shane didn’t answer right away. His fingers rested against the arm of the chair, still, but not tense. “I would like to fall in love,” he said.

Ellis didn’t move, didn’t react beyond a slight shift in attention. “And if you don’t?”

Shane exhaled, quiet. “I’m open to building something,” he said. “A partnership, something stable and intentional.”

“Define partnership.”

“Mutual effort,” Shane said. “Shared goals. Respect. Trust.”

“Without love?”

“If necessary,” Shane said. “But not as a preference.”

Ellis nodded once. “So love is optional.”

“No,” Shane said. “It’s… hoped for. Not guaranteed.”

A brief pause. “Do you believe love can develop under those conditions?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Shane considered that. “Because the conditions are stable,” he said. “There’s space for it to develop without… external pressure.”

“Pressure from what?”

“Uncertainty,” Shane said. “Misaligned expectations. Not knowing where something is going.”

Ellis leaned back slightly. “You’re describing love as something that benefits from structure.”

“I think most things do,” Shane said.

“People aren’t most things.”

Shane’s mouth curved faintly. “No,” he said. “But relationships still function within parameters.”

Ellis picked his pen back up. “What do you do when expectations aren’t met?”

“I address it.”

“How?”

“Directly,” Shane said. “Early.”

“And if that doesn’t resolve it?”

Shane paused to think for a moment. “I try to understand why,” he said. “Whether it’s miscommunication or something more fundamental.”

“And if it’s fundamental?”

“Then it’s not sustainable.”

Ellis nodded, writing something down. “What would make you leave this marriage?”

Shane’s gaze shifted slightly, landing on a point near the edge of the desk. “A sustained lack of alignment,” he said. “If we’re no longer working toward the same thing. Or if the effort stops being mutual.”

“And before that?”

“I would try to correct it.”

“How many times?”

Shane hesitated, just briefly. “As many as is reasonable,” he said.

“Define reasonable.”

“When there’s still movement,” Shane said. “When the other person is engaged.”

“And if they’re not?”

Shane’s fingers pressed lightly against the chair again, then stilled. “Then it’s not a partnership.”

Ellis looked at him for a moment. “You’re describing something more flexible than your intake suggests.”

Shane glanced toward him, then away again. “I don’t think I communicated it clearly,” he said.

“Communicate it now.”

Shane paused again. “I’m not trying to remove the possibility of connection,” Shane said. “I’m trying to remove the barriers to it.” Ellis didn’t interrupt, so Shane kept speaking. “I don’t want to spend years figuring out if someone wants the same things I do,” Shane continued. “I want to start from that point.”

“And then?”

“See what develops.”

“Which includes love.”

“Yes.”

“And what if love doesn't develop?”

Shane took a second longer this time. “I think that depends on what does,” he said finally. “If there’s respect, trust, compatibility… I’m willing to stay.”

“Even without love.”

Shane’s expression shifted, just slightly. “I don’t think those things exist without some form of it,” he said.

Ellis’s pen stopped. “That’s different from what you said earlier.”

“It’s more accurate,” Shane said.

Ellis paused for a beat, considering, and then closed the file. “That’s all I need.”

Shane nodded, standing. “Thank you.”

Ellis looked at him a moment longer. “You’re more open than you present.”

Shane adjusted his sleeve automatically. “I try to be precise,” he said.

“And sometimes that reads as closed.”

Shane considered that. “Noted,” he said Ellis gave a small nod and Shane left, the door closing quietly behind him.

***

The next day passed without anything. Shane noticed, but he didn’t let it change his routine. He was at the office before eight, already halfway through reviewing a contract before most of the floor had arrived. It was easier that way. The work gave him something to hold onto, something that moved forward in a predictable way. He didn’t check his phone more than usual. He was just aware of it. That was different.

By mid-afternoon, he had finished one negotiation, started another, and sent two junior associates back with revisions that were cleaner than what they had brought him. It was steady, controlled, familiar.

And still.  Nothing.

By the second day, it had shifted slightly. Not urgency, not impatience. Just… anticipation. A variable that hadn’t resolved yet. He didn’t like variables that lingered. At 4:17 PM, while he was reviewing a clause for the third time, his phone lit up. He didn’t reach for it immediately. Shane finished the sentence., marked the change and then picked it up.

There was a message. It was short.

Cleared to proceed. Next phase requires in-person availability.

There was no explanation, no detail. Just confirmation. His shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly. “Good,” he said quietly, more to himself than anything else. Then he opened his calendar. He replied within a minute.

Available. Please advise on timing.

He didn’t overthink the wording. It was clean. Direct.

The response came faster than he expected.

Provide two full-day windows within the next five days.

Shane leaned back slightly, eyes moving to his calendar again. The week was already full. Meetings, deadlines, court dates. He started shifting things. Not canceling, but reassigning. Moving where he could, delegating where he had to. He didn’t hesitate. By the time he looked back at his phone, he had already decided.

Wednesday and Friday. Fully available.

He sent it. This time, the reply didn’t come immediately. It came three hours later.

Wednesday. Confirmed. Details to follow.

That was it. No time, no location. Just confirmation. Shane stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary, then set his phone down. It was moving now.

The next message came the following morning. Shane opened it as he walked into his office, setting his bag down without breaking stride. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, reading.

You will not be introduced to your match prior to the ceremony. Preparation will proceed accordingly. Confirmation of continued participation is required.

He read it again, slower.

Not introduced prior to the ceremony.

The language was precise, intentionally so. There was no room to reinterpret it into something more familiar, more comfortable. No meeting., no conversation, no opportunity to assess in the way he usually would. Shane set his phone down on the desk, then picked it up again almost immediately. He walked to the window, more out of habit than anything else. The city looked the same. It always did. A knock, light. “Come in.”

Rose stepped in, already watching him. “You’re standing,” she said. “That’s never a good sign.”

Shane didn’t answer right away. He turned the phone toward her instead, sliding it across the desk. She picked it up, scanned the message. Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

Shane moved back to his chair but didn’t sit. Just rested his hand against the back of it. “That wasn’t clear before,” he said.

“No,” Rose said. “It really wasn’t.” She looked up at him. “So. You’re just… going to marry someone you’ve never even spoken to.”

“When you say it like that—”

“—it sounds exactly like what it is,” she finished.

Shane exhaled quietly. “There’s still a process,” he said. “Screening. Evaluation. This isn’t arbitrary.”

“I know,” Rose said. “I’m not saying it is. I’m just saying it’s—” She gestured vaguely. “—a lot.”

A brief silence settled. Shane pulled the chair out slightly, then finally sat. “It doesn’t change what I’m looking for,” he said.

“It changes how you get there.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Shane didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped back to the message, then drifted slightly, not quite focusing on anything. “I don’t need to meet someone to know if we want the same outcome,” he said. “That’s already been determined.”

“And the rest of it?”

“I’m still open to it,” Shane said after a long moment. “That part doesn’t go away just because the timeline is different.”

Rose studied him, quieter now. “You’re really doing this,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Shane picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen for just a second. “I think I am.” He typed.

Confirmed.

He read it once. Then sent it. The message went through immediately. No delay. No second step.

Rose let out a small breath. “Okay,” she said. “Then I guess we’re doing this.”

Shane set the phone down, more deliberately this time. “Yes,” he said. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a hypothetical.

Documents came through to his inbox within the hour. Shane was mid-email when the notification appeared. He finished the sentence, reread it, sent it, and only then opened the message. It was a secure portal link with no additional context. He clicked it immediately.

The interface was clean, minimal. No branding beyond what was necessary. Everything was organized into sections.

An NDA. 

He opened it first. Longer than the initial one. More detailed with specific language around confidentiality, scope, duration. Clauses that extended beyond him to anyone he might disclose information to. It was comprehensive in a way that suggested experience. Shane read it line by line, slower than he needed to, marking the structure in his head. It was solid. No gaps, no unnecessary exposure. He signed.

Next: identity verification. 

It was straightforward. Documentation he already had scanned. He had it uploaded within minutes. Efficient. The system moved him forward automatically.

Then—

Preliminary marital agreement. 

Shane paused. Not because it was unfamiliar. It wasn’t. He had drafted versions of this for clients before. Reviewed them, negotiated them. But seeing it here, in this context, before anything else— He read more carefully.

Asset division. Contingencies. Duration clauses. Conditions under which the agreement could be revisited.

It wasn’t overly restrictive. It was balanced. That was almost more notable than anything else.

There was a knock at the door. Rose again. “Am I interrupting something important?” she asked, stepping in without invitation.

“Yes,” Shane said, without looking up.

She came closer, leaning slightly against the edge of the desk. “That looks serious.”

“It is.”

Her eyes scanned the screen. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.”

Rose let out a low breath. “Wow.” She straightened slightly, crossing her arms. “So this is happening.”

Shane didn’t answer. His attention was still on a specific clause, rereading it.

“Do you want me to look at it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

“I know you’ve got it,” she said. “That’s not what I meant.”

There was a brief pause before  Shane finally looked up. “I know what I’m looking at,” he said.

“I know you do,” Rose replied, softer. “I’m asking if you want another set of eyes anyway.”

He considered it for a second then answered, “No,” he said. It wasn't dismissive, just certain.

Rose nodded once. “Okay.” She stayed where she was, though. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Shane looked back at the screen, then at the document, then at nothing in particular. “Yes,” he said. There was a beat, and then, “I think so.”

Rose watched him for a second longer, then gave a small nod. “Alright,” she said. “Then I’m going to trust you to know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“I know,” she said again. She pushed off the desk. “But if you suddenly decide you don’t, I’m right here.”

“I know.”

A small smile, then she left. The door closed quietly behind her. Shane turned back to the screen and scrolled once more, slower this time. Not looking for errors, just… taking it in. Then he clicked to sign. The system processed it immediately. A confirmation message appeared. He sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly. There was nothing left in this step to review. It was moving forward now, whether he adjusted or not.

***

The space didn’t feel like a store. It felt like something reserved. A room set apart from the rest of the building. The door had been opened before they reached it. Someone had been waiting. Of course they had.

“Mr. Hollander,” the tailor said, stepping forward with a measured smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Shane nodded once. “Thank you.”

Rose stepped in behind him, her gaze already moving across the room. It was quiet in a way that felt curated. Soft lighting, warm but controlled. No clutter. No excess. Just a single rack positioned at the center, three suits spaced evenly like they were already the only options.

“This is very you,” Rose murmured.

“It’s efficient,” Shane said.

She smiled. “It’s an experience.”

The tailor gestured toward the rack. “We’ve prepared three selections based on your measurements and… the nature of the occasion.”

Shane didn’t react to that phrasing, he just stepped closer. The first suit was light gray. Clean, almost architectural in its simplicity. A pale blue tie laid across the shirt, the color soft enough not to compete with anything.

“Classic,” the tailor said. “Timeless. Very appropriate.”

Shane reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. Smooth. Predictable.

“Try it,” Rose said, already moving toward the fitting area.

He didn’t argue. The process was immediate once he stepped inside. Shirt, jacket, hands already adjusting before the fabric fully settled. The tailor moved efficiently, marking small changes, smoothing the line of the shoulder, pinning the waist.

Shane stepped out in front of the mirror. It looked right. Of course it did.

Rose tilted her head. “You look like yourself.”

“That’s the point,” Shane said.

“It’s safe,” she countered.

He didn’t respond. “Next,” he said instead.

The burgundy suit was different before he even put it on. The color held the light instead of reflecting it, deeper, more deliberate. When he stepped out, Rose’s reaction was immediate.

“Oh.”

Shane glanced at her. “What?”

“That’s…” She paused, searching. “Interesting.”

“Too much,” Shane said.

“It’s not too much,” she said. “It’s just more than you usually are.”

He looked back at himself. It didn’t feel wrong. Just… visible.

“I don’t need to be visible,” he said.

Rose stepped closer, fingers brushing the lapel, adjusting it slightly. “It’s your wedding,” she said. “You’re allowed to be.”

Shane’s expression didn’t change, but he didn’t argue either. He turned slightly, testing how it moved. The fabric followed him differently, less restrained.

“It’s not consistent with the rest of it,” he said finally.

Rose’s brows lifted. “The rest of what?”

“The approach,” Shane said. “This isn’t about making a statement.”

Rose watched him for a second, then stepped back.

“Okay,” she said. “Then don’t make one.”

“Last one,” the tailor said.

The third suit was darker. A deep charcoal that read almost black until the light hit it. Paired with a crisp white shirt, no tie laid out beside it. Shane changed again. 

“It works,” she said.

Shane nodded slightly. It did. But— He turned back toward the mirror, then back to the rack. The gray suit was still there. He stepped back into the fitting area without saying anything. When he came out again, he was in the light gray. The pale blue tie in place. The tailor adjusted it, smoothing it once, then stepping back.

Rose watched him, quieter now. “You’re sure,” she said.

Shane looked at himself one more time. The lines were clean. The fit exact. Nothing distracted from anything else. It wasn’t trying to be memorable. It was trying to be right. “Yes,” he said.

The tailor nodded, already moving in. “An excellent choice.”

Rose smiled, softer this time. “Of course it is.”

Shane didn’t respond. But when he looked at himself again, there was something there he hadn’t expected. Not excitement, just the sense that he had chosen something he could stand in and not need to think about again.

***

The door closed behind them with a soft, deliberate click. No one else was inside, there were no glass cases lining the walls, no rows of options on display. Everything was kept out of sight until it was needed.

“Mr. Hollander,” the associate said, already approaching. “We’ve prepared a selection.” 

Of course they had. Shane nodded once, stepping forward. Rose stayed close, quieter this time, observing. A tray was placed on the table between them. Rings arranged with precision, each one spaced enough to be considered individually. They were all expensive, that was clear, but none of them announced it. Shane didn’t look at all of them. He scanned, then narrowed his focus.

There were bands with subtle textures: Brushed finishes, slight variations that caught the light differently. He passed over them. His hand stopped at a simple band. Platinum, clean, no detail beyond the material itself. “This one,” he said.

The associate inclined their head. “A strong choice.”

Rose leaned in slightly. “That’s it?”

“It’s sufficient,” Shane said.

She smiled faintly. “It’s very you.”

Shane slid it onto his finger. It fit perfectly. He turned his hand once, testing the weight. It didn’t feel like anything. Which, he realized, was exactly the point. “Comfortable,” he said.

“Of course,” the associate replied.

“Would you like to leave an inscription for your partner's ring?”

Shane’s gaze dropped to the ring. An inscription. Something that wouldn’t be seen by anyone else. 

Shane didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t thinking about presentation, or meaning in the way people usually framed it. He was thinking about intent, what this was, what he was choosing. What they were choosing.

Then: “Deliberately yours.” The associate wrote it down without reaction.

Rose didn’t speak right away. “I like that.”

Shane didn’t look up. “It’s accurate,” he said.

***

The bar was quieter than most places Rose would have chosen, which meant Shane had picked it. Low lighting, soft noise, enough distance between tables that conversations didn’t overlap. Rose ordered wine for the both of them before Shane even sat down.

“You need it,” she said.

“I’m not opposed,” Shane replied. He loosened his tie slightly as he sat, something he didn’t usually do in public. The day had been longer than he had expected it to feel. The glass was set in front of him, but he didn’t reach for it immediately.

Rose watched him. “Well,” she said lightly. “You picked a suit. You picked a ring. You’re practically married.”

Shane exhaled, something quieter than a laugh. “It feels… different now.”

“Because it is,” she said.

He picked up the glass, turning it slightly before taking a sip. “I’m not worried about the logistics,” he said.

“I would be concerned if you were.”

“It’s everything else,” Shane added.

Rose leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting. “Like what?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know, but because saying it out loud made it less theoretical. “I don’t know who they are,” he said. “I don’t know how they handle things. What they expect beyond what’s been outlined.”

“That’s part of it,” Rose said.

“I know.”

“And?”

Shane’s gaze dropped to the table, to the stem of the glass between his fingers. “My parents,” he said.

Rose stilled slightly. “What about them?”

“I haven’t told them,” Shane said. “I don’t know how to.”

Rose’s expression softened. “That’s fair.”

“They’re going to have questions,” he continued. “Reasonable ones.”

“And you don’t have answers yet.”

“No.”

A pause. “I don’t even know what to call it,” Shane admitted. “It doesn’t fit into anything they would expect.”

Rose considered that. “You tell them the truth,” she said. “You’re getting married.”

“That’s not the part they’ll question.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it’s the part that matters.” 

Shane let that sit. 

“I can come with you,” Rose added after a moment. “If you want.”

He looked up at her. “You’d do that?”

“Of course I would. What kind of best woman would I be if I didn't?”

A beat, then Shane nodded once. “Okay.” The word landed heavier than it should have.

Rose smiled, softer now. “We’ll figure it out.”

Shane took another sip of his wine, slower this time. He felt it then. Not control slipping, just the absence of it in a way he couldn’t immediately correct. His phone buzzed and he glanced at it automatically. There was a message from Julia. He opened it.

Ceremony scheduled. Details to follow.

Below it—

A date.

Shane stared at it for long enough that Rose noticed.

“Well?” she asked quietly.

Shane set the phone down carefully, like it might change if he moved too quickly. “It’s set,” he said. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something he was working toward. It felt like something that was already happening.

***

He set lunch with his parents that Sunday. 

The house felt the same. That was the first thing Shane noticed when he stepped inside. The entryway, the light, the quiet order of everything. Nothing out of place. Nothing changed in a way that required adjustment.

“Shane,” Yuna said, already coming toward him. She didn’t rush. She never did. But there was intention in the way she reached for him, a brief touch at his arm, then his shoulder.

“Hi Mom,” he said.

Rose followed just behind him. “Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna,” she corrected gently, with a small smile. “You’ve been here enough times.”

Rose smiled back. “Yuna.”

David appeared from further inside, wiping his hands with a towel. “You made it,” he said. 

“Of course,” Shane replied.

Lunch was already set. That didn’t surprise him either. They moved into the dining room, everything arranged with the same quiet precision Shane had grown up with. Plates set evenly, glasses aligned, nothing excessive. They sat.

Conversation started easily enough. Work, mostly. David asked a few questions about a case Shane was handling. Rose filled in where she could, adding details Shane didn’t bother to elaborate on.

Yuna listened. She always listened first. It took longer than Shane expected for there to be a natural pause. When it came, it was small, a shift between topics. Shane felt it. He set his fork down. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said. Yuna’s attention sharpened immediately. Not visibly to anyone else, but Shane saw it. 

David leaned back slightly in his chair. “Okay,” he said.

Rose didn’t say anything. Just stayed still beside him.

Shane exhaled once. “I’m getting married.”

The words landed cleanly. For a second, no one spoke. Yuna blinked once, slow. David didn’t move at all.

“I’m sorry,” Yuna said, carefully. “You’re what?”

“Getting married,” Shane repeated.

“To who?” David asked after a brief pause.

“I don’t know yet.” That shifted the room.

Yuna’s expression didn’t change dramatically, but something in it tightened. Her gaze moved over him, assessing, not reacting. “Shane,” she said, quieter now, “what does that mean?”

He had expected that. “There’s a process,” he said. “A matchmaker. Structured. They vet both parties, assess compatibility—”

“A matchmaker,” David repeated.

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t met this person.”

“No.”

Yuna set her fork down. “Have you spoken to them.”

“No.”

A longer pause this time. Rose stayed very still. Yuna leaned back slightly, her hands folding loosely in front of her. “Okay,” she said. “Then I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to answer it clearly.”

Shane nodded.

“Why are you doing this.”

There it was. Shane didn’t answer immediately. He could feel Rose beside him, not looking at her, but aware of her. “I want something stable,” he said. “Something intentional. Dating hasn’t—”

Yuna shook her head slightly. “That’s not enough,” she said.

Shane stopped. Her tone wasn’t sharp. It rarely was. But it was firm.

“Shane,” she continued, “I understand wanting stability. I understand wanting clarity. But that’s not a reason to marry someone you don’t know.”

He held her gaze for a second, then let it drift slightly, not avoiding, just… thinking. “I want to fall in love,” he said. The room shifted again.

Yuna didn’t respond right away. “And you think this is how that happens,” she said finally.

“I think it removes the barriers to it,” Shane said. “It puts two people in a position where they’re working toward the same thing from the start.”

David spoke for the first time since the initial questions. “And if it doesn’t happen?”

Shane exhaled, quieter. “Then I build something else,” he said. “A partnership. Something stable. Mutual.”

Yuna studied him. “Have you thought this through?” she asked. "I mean truly, completely?"

“Yes.”

“Beyond the structure,” she said. “Beyond the process. The person.”

“As much as I can without knowing them,” Shane said.

“That’s not much.”

“No,” he agreed.

Yuna held that. “And you’re comfortable with that.”

Shane hesitated. “Not completely,” he admitted for the first time.

Yuna’s expression softened, just slightly. “What aren’t you comfortable with?”

Shane’s gaze dropped to the table. “Not knowing how they’ll respond to things,” he said. “Not knowing what they need. Or expect.”

“And you’re still willing to do it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Shane looked up again. “Because I think the alternative is continuing something that hasn’t worked,” he said. “And I don’t want that.”

Silence settled. Not tense, but careful. David leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Is this reversible?” he asked.

“Yes,” Shane said. “There are agreements in place.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” David said. “Is it something you can walk away from easily.”

Shane paused. “No,” Shane said.

David nodded once. “Good,” he said.

Yuna glanced at him, then back to Shane. “That’s not reassuring,” she said quietly.

“It means he’s taking it seriously,” David replied.

Yuna looked back at Shane. “You are taking it seriously,” she said.

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then: “Okay.” It wasn’t immediate acceptance. But it wasn’t resistance anymore. “Okay,” she repeated, softer this time. The shift was subtle. Her posture eased slightly. Her hands relaxed. “When?” she asked.

Shane glanced at Rose briefly, then back. “There’s a date,” he said. “Soon.”

Yuna’s brows lifted, just a fraction. “Soon,” she echoed.

“Yes.”

Something in her expression changed again. It wasn’t concern this time, it was something closer to curiosity. “Do you know anything about them?” she asked.

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing specific.”

Yuna nodded slowly. “That’s…” She stopped, then let out a small breath. “That’s a lot.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s also… something,” she added, quieter.

Shane looked at her. Yuna gave a small, contained smile. “It’s not how I would have expected this to happen,” she said. “But I’m… interested to see who you end up with.”

Rose smiled faintly beside him.

David leaned back again. “Where is the ceremony?” he asked.

“Not confirmed yet.”

David glanced at Yuna, then back to Shane. “You could use the cabin,” he said. “It’s private. Controlled.”

Shane shook his head almost immediately. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Yuna tilted her head slightly. “Why not?”

“It’s not neutral,” Shane said. “It’s my family's space. It would… assume a level of familiarity that isn’t there yet.”

Yuna watched him for a moment then nodded. “That’s fair,” she said. David didn’t argue. Another quiet settled over the table. It was different this time, with less uncertainty. Yuna reached for her glass, then looked back at Shane. “We’ll want to meet them,” she said.

Shane nodded. “I know.”

“And we will,” she added. It was not a question.

Shane nodded again. “Yes, Mom.” And just like that, it wasn’t just his decision anymore. It was something that had been let into the room.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four - Ilya

Chapter Notes

The car from Logan had barely stopped in front of the building before Cliff was already out, circling around to pull Ilya’s bag from the trunk. Boston looked gray in the way it often did in early spring, the air still carrying that cold edge that never quite left the harbor. Ilya stood on the curb for a second too long, sunglasses still on even though the light didn’t justify them, body heavy with travel and the kind of sleep that didn’t count as rest.

“Move,” Cliff said, not unkindly. “You’re blocking the sidewalk.”

Ilya made a vague sound and started toward the entrance. His phone buzzed once in his hand. Then again. He glanced down. Alexei. His grip tightened before he could stop it.

Cliff was already a few steps ahead, dragging the suitcase behind him. “You coming?”

Ilya lifted the phone. “Go up. I’ll be there.”

Cliff looked back, took in his expression, and seemed to decide not to ask. “Fine. Don’t disappear.” The lobby doors shut behind him. 

Ilya stayed outside and answered.

Alexei didn’t bother with a greeting. “You’re back.”

“Just landed,” Ilya said, voice flat.

“Good. Then you can stop pretending this is difficult.”

Ilya turned slightly away from the street, one shoulder against the stone by the door. “I am not pretending anything.”

“Then where is my money.”

No buildup, no performance. Alexei had always preferred blunt force to precision. Ilya looked out at the line of cars moving past, the clipped rhythm of the city continuing around him as if none of this existed. “I told you Tuesday.”

“It is Monday.”

“It is Monday morning,” Ilya corrected. “Banks just opened. The money is not sitting in a shoebox under my bed.”

Alexei was quiet for half a second. Then: “Do not be clever with me.”

“I am not being clever, Alexei. I am explaining the situation.”

“You have enough.”

“That is not the problem.” It wasn’t even entirely a lie. He had more than enough. But enough and liquid were not the same thing, and Alexei didn’t need to know where one ended and the other began. “I am moving it,” Ilya said, calmer now. “It takes time.”

“You had time in Milan.”

“I had fittings in Milan. Shows. People around me every second.” He let a little irritation into his voice, not too much. “I told you I would handle it when I got back. I am back.”

Alexei breathed into the line. “Tuesday.”

“Yes.”

“I want proof.”

“You want the money,” Ilya said. “You will get it faster if you stop calling me every six hours.” Silence again. Not agreement, calculation. Ilya used it. “If anything goes out before then,” he said, voice dropping, “you get nothing. That part should be obvious even to you.”

Alexei laughed once, mean and short. “You think you still have terms.”

“I think you want to be paid.” That landed. He could hear it in the pause that followed.

Finally, Alexei said, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Ilya agreed. The call ended without goodbye. Ilya lowered the phone slowly and stood there a moment longer, the city noisy and distant around him. His reflection in the glass door looked put together enough. Coat, sunglasses, the expensive kind of disinterest people mistook for ease. He felt sick. Not panicked, that would have been simpler. Panic was loud. This was sharper and quieter, threaded through with the realization that he had run out of time to keep pretending this would solve itself. 

His phone was still in his hand. Ilya unlocked it, opened Instagram without thinking, stared at Julia’s private account for a second, then closed it again. He was too exposed, somehow, even if he wasn’t. Instead he pulled up the number she had used before. No message yet. Fine. He stepped into the building at last, rode the elevator up, and found Cliff in the kitchen with coffee already going and Ilya’s suitcase parked just inside the bedroom door.

“You look terrible,” Cliff said, glancing over.

“Thank you,” he deadpanned.

“You’re welcome.”

Ilya dropped his phone on the counter and reached for the coffee mug Cliff had set out. His hands were steady. That felt useful, at least.

Cliff watched him for a beat. “Everything okay?”

Ilya picked up the cup. “Obviously.”

Cliff’s expression said he didn’t believe him, but he let it go. Ilya drank the coffee too hot, barely tasting it. Tuesday, he thought. Then he corrected himself. Not Tuesday. Tomorrow. Just the next excuse.

***

The message came that afternoon, when the apartment had gone quiet enough for Ilya to hear his own phone vibrate against the stone countertop. He looked at it immediately.

No greeting. No wasted language.

Proceeding to assessment phase. Provide availability within 48 hours.

Ilya stared at the screen for a second, then read it again, slower.

The phrase irritated him on instinct. It sounded clinical, managed. Like a process designed to imply he was the least important person in it, which, given Julia, was probably intentional. He set the phone down, crossed the kitchen, then came back for it almost at once. Cliff was in the living room on a call, voice low and efficient, pacing near the windows. Ilya could hear fragments. Thursday confirmation. Pull the photos. No, not that one. Good. Occupied.

Ilya opened the message again and typed:

Available tomorrow after noon. Thursday morning. Remote preferred.

He looked at it, deleted “preferred,” and sent it as it was. Then he put the phone face down and tried not to look at it. This lasted maybe four minutes. By the time Cliff ended his call and wandered back toward the kitchen, Ilya had checked twice and found nothing.

“You’re hovering,” Cliff said.

“I live here.”

“That's not what hovering means.” Ilya ignored him. Cliff opened the refrigerator, frowned into it like the contents had personally offended him. “You need food.”

“I need less talking.”

“You need both.”

His phone buzzed again. Ilya reached for it before he could stop himself. A response.

Tomorrow. 2:00 PM. Dr. Galina Molchalina. You will receive the link one hour prior.

That was all. No explanation of who Galina was. No credentials, no framing. Just the time, the name, and the implication that he was expected to comply.

Cliff noticed the shift in his expression. “Bad news?”

“No.”

“Good news?”

Ilya slipped the phone back onto the counter. “Neither.”

Cliff shut the refrigerator. “That sounds promising.”

Ilya gave him a flat look. “I have an appointment tomorrow.”

“With?”

“A psychiatrist.”

That got a pause. Cliff leaned one shoulder against the counter. “Is this the immigration lawyer thing.”

Svetlana, Ilya thought automatically, then corrected himself. Julia, technically. Then the whole chain of it. “Something adjacent,” he said.

Cliff studied him for a moment. “Do I need to worry?”

“No.”

“Do I need to clear your afternoon?”

“It’s remote.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Ilya picked up his coffee again even though it had gone cold. “No.”

Cliff let it rest there, but his gaze didn’t shift. “You’re acting strange.”

“You say that every time I don’t explain myself immediately.”

“And I’m usually right.”

Ilya smiled without meaning to. “I know.”

Cliff’s expression softened, only slightly. “Okay. Then what do you need?”

The answer came too quickly in his head. Time. Instead he said, “Nothing.”

Cliff nodded once, clearly filing that away as temporary rather than true. “Fine. But if this is going to turn into one of your badly timed life decisions, I’d like some warning.”

Ilya looked at him over the rim of the mug. “All my life decisions are perfectly timed.”

“Sure,” Cliff said. “That’s why we’re having this conversation in your kitchen while you pretend not to look at your phone every thirty seconds.”

Ilya set the mug down. He should have said something flippant, something easy. He could feel the shape of it, a sharp answer that would move the conversation somewhere safer. Instead he said nothing.

Cliff’s expression changed again, enough to register. “Okay,” he said more carefully. “Maybe I do need to worry.”

“You do not.”

“You’re saying that like someone who has already decided I should.”

Ilya exhaled once through his nose and turned away, resting his hands on the edge of the counter. The apartment felt too quiet again, too still. He wanted movement. A fitting. A flight. Anything with a call sheet.

“Tomorrow at two,” he said. “That’s all.”

Cliff let the silence stretch. “And after?”

“I don’t know.” That, at least, was true.

Cliff pushed off the counter. “I’ll keep the afternoon clear.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“No,” Cliff said. “You never do.” He crossed back toward the living room, giving Ilya the kind of space that only counted because it had been chosen.

Ilya picked his phone up again and opened Julia’s message one more time. Dr. Galina Molchalina. A Russian name. That felt deliberate too. He wondered if Julia had chosen her because she would make him less careful, or more. Either way, by two tomorrow, he would be expected to sit in front of a stranger and explain why marrying another stranger had become the cleanest line through the problem. He leaned back against the counter, eyes closing briefly. This was still manageable, he told himself. Structured. Step by step. Assessment tomorrow. Alexei in a few days. Something after that. The lie in that thought was not that he believed it. It was that he still thought he could keep each part separate.

***

The link arrived at 1:03pm. Ilya had been dressed for it since twelve-thirty, not because he cared how he looked on camera, but because being caught unprepared felt intolerable. Black sweater. Hair pushed back. The apartment behind him was reduced to a wall and the corner of a bookshelf that suggested nothing. He clicked into the call two minutes early.

Dr. Galina Molchalina appeared exactly on time. She was older than he had expected, though not old. Controlled in a way that felt less polished than Julia and somehow more dangerous for it. Books behind her, real ones. A window with light coming through. Nothing curated enough to look false. “Ilya,” she said in Russian. Ilya wasn’t surprised, but pleased.

“Galina.” No small talk. Good.

She glanced down at something off-screen, then back at him. “This is evaluative. Not therapeutic.”

“I know.”

“Good.” She folded her hands loosely in front of her. “Tell me why you are here.”

He had expected the question. It still irritated him. “I completed the form.”

“And yet I am asking.”

Ilya leaned back slightly in his chair. “I am pursuing marriage through Julia’s process.”

“That is what you are doing,” Galina said. “Not why.”

He let a small pause sit between them. “I want stability.”

Her expression didn’t shift. “That is a noun. Try again.”

A sharper answer rose in him and passed without landing. “My current circumstances are not permanent. I would prefer they were.”

“Better,” she said. “Still incomplete.”

Ilya huffed and looked past the camera for half a second, then back. “I am not interested in wasting time.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t imagine you are.” She made a note.

“I see here that you marked yourself as bisexual.”

“Yes.”

“Was that difficult to disclose?”

Ilya almost smiled. “On a form?”

Her gaze held. “In a process that ends in marriage.”

“No.”

“Do you have a strong preference for a partner?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“No preference at all?”

“Not in that sense.”

Galina watched him for a beat. “Explain the sense.”

Ilya crossed one ankle over his knee, then uncrossed it almost immediately. “I care more about the person than the category.”

“And what kind of person?”

“Stable,” he said. “Intelligent. Not fragile.” That got the faintest flicker of interest.

“Fragile how?”

“Emotionally. Practically. I do not want to manage someone.”

Galina wrote something down. “Do you often manage the people around you?”

“No.”

“Do you leave before you have to?”

Ilya was quiet for a second too long. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether staying is worth it.”

Galina nodded like that confirmed something. “And what would make staying worth it now?”

He looked directly at the camera then, more by accident than choice. “A future.”

The silence that followed felt different. It was less adversarial. Not kind, just attentive. Galina leaned back slightly. “You are aware that marriage is not immigration strategy alone.”

“Yes.”

“You wrote on your form that you are open to emotional connection but do not require immediate romantic attachment.”

“Yes.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be disappointed if you did not fall in love?”

The question caught at something in him he hadn’t meant to make visible. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe?”

Ilya exhaled. “I am not incapable of it.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

He looked away this time, toward the blank wall beside the laptop. “I know.”

Galina let the pause hold. “When was the last time you stayed once something became difficult?”

He laughed once, softly, without amusement. “This is not therapy.”

“No,” she agreed. “It is an evaluation.”

He hated that answer because it was effective. “A while,” he said finally.

“Do you intend for this marriage to be temporary?”

“No.” His answer was immediate.

“Do you intend for it to solve a temporary problem?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “I intend for it to solve a permanent one.”

That seemed to satisfy her more than anything else had. She made another note, then looked back up. “And if the person Julia chooses is Canadian.”

Ilya didn’t react outwardly, but he felt the question like a shift in air pressure. “That would be relevant,” he said.

“More than American.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked just past it again. “Potentially.”

“Because?”

“Because it is faster.”

“More stable?”

“Yes.”

“More controlling.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You say that like it is a flaw.”

Galina’s expression stayed neutral. “I say it because it is important to you.”

The call ended twenty-three minutes later with no indication of whether he had said the right things or the wrong ones or anything at all. When the screen went dark, Ilya stayed where he was. Stable, intelligent, not fragile. A future. He put a hand over his mouth briefly, then dropped it. The problem was that he had meant all of it.

***

Alexei called at 9:14 the next morning. Ilya was in the back seat of a car on his way downtown for a meeting he couldn’t remember agreeing to, sunglasses on, phone already in his hand by the first vibration. He stared at the name for one beat, then answered. “Yes.”

“Did you think I would forget?”

Ilya turned his head toward the window, Boston sliding by in blurred blocks of brick and gray sky. “No.”

“Then where is it?”

The driver kept his eyes on the road. “It was flagged,” Ilya said. He had chosen the phrasing before the call ever came. Simple. Irritatingly believable.

A sharp silence on the other end. “Flagged.”

“I do not make transactions like this,” Ilya said. “Which you would know if you understood anything about how money works outside whatever stupid little world you live in.”

Alexei laughed once. “Don’t insult me while you’re begging.”

“I am not the one begging.”

“No. You are stalling.”

Ilya shifted in the seat, crossing one leg over the other. “I am telling you what happened.”

“What happened,” Alexei repeated mockingly.

“The transfer triggered verification,” Ilya said. “It is being reviewed.”

“How convenient.”

“It is common.”

“Not for me.”

Ilya almost said of course not, but stopped himself. “There is additional verification. Identity, source, confirmation. It will clear.”

“When?”

“A few days.” He hated how often he was using that word.

Alexei heard it too. “Yesterday it was Tuesday. Today it is A few days.”

“Yes,” Ilya said evenly. “That is how time works.”

“Do not be smart.”

“Then stop asking stupid questions.” The driver glanced once into the rearview mirror and then quickly away. Ilya lowered his voice. “If this gets out before the transaction clears, you get nothing,” he said. “No money. No leverage. Nothing.”

Alexei exhaled hard into the phone. “You think I need your money?”

“No,” Ilya said. “I think you want it.” That landed. Again. There was always that sliver of usefulness in greed. It made people patient when nothing else could.

Alexei said, “I want proof.”

“You want too much.”

“I want proof.”

Ilya looked out at the street again, mind moving faster now. “Fine. I will send confirmation when it clears verification.”

“When?”

“A few days,” he said again, making the word sound like an insult.

“You are running out of chances.”

“No,” Ilya said quietly. “You are.” He ended the call before Alexei could answer. For a moment all he could hear was the sound of the tires over the street and the faint hum of the engine beneath him. The driver said nothing. Good. Ilya opened a blank message to no one and stared at the screen.

Flagged. Verification. A few days.

He could keep that line going once, maybe twice more if he layered the details. Not indefinitely. Alexei wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t stupid enough to be strung along forever if the payoff stopped feeling real. His phone buzzed again. Not Alexei.

Julia.

Available this afternoon for follow-up. 4 PM.

He read it once, then locked the screen. 

Tomorrow had become this afternoon. Fine. Maybe that was better. Maybe if Julia gave him something concrete enough, he could stop improvising one day at a time and start moving toward an actual solution. He closed his eyes for a second. Not because he was tired. Because he needed one second where no one was asking him for anything. When he opened them again, the city was still moving, the car was still heading forward, and his phone was still warm in his hand. He hated that it had come to this. He hated it more that he could already feel himself choosing it.

***

His phone rang exactly at four. Julia did not waste time asking how he was. No greeting beyond his name and hers. “Ilya.”

“Julia.”

A pause. Not empty, structured. “I have reviewed the assessment.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand flat on the stone. “And?”

“And you are still under the impression that your best option is the United States.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question. Ilya kept his voice even. “It is where I am based.”

“It is not where you are secure.”

He looked out toward the windows, the late afternoon light flattening the city into something colder. “You have another suggestion.”

“I have a more stable jurisdiction.”

He was silent for a beat. “Canada.”

“Yes.” The word landed with less surprise than it should have. Galina had already set the shape of it in place. Julia was only filling in the edges.

“You are considering marriage for permanence,” she continued. “The American process is extended, conditional, and vulnerable to interruption. In your case, more than most.”

“In my case,” he repeated.

“You are in a field dependent on perception,” Julia said. “Reputation. Mobility. Continued relevance. None of those are reliable foundations for status.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “You are not telling me anything I do not know.”

“No,” she said. “I am telling you which variable matters more.”

He let the silence hold this time. Julia continued. “Spousal sponsorship in Canada leads to permanent residency on a shorter timeline. Citizenship eligibility follows more quickly. The path is cleaner.”

“Cleaner,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And the cost?”

“The same.”

That made him laugh once, low and short. “I doubt that.”

“In every way that matters,” Julia said. “Yes.”

Ilya pushed away from the counter and moved toward the window, restless energy under his skin. “I travel constantly.”

“You would continue to.”

“There are residency requirements.”

“Yes.”

“So there are constraints.”

“There are always constraints.”

He stopped moving. That, more than anything, sounded like her real answer.

“If your objective is stability,” she said, “Canada is the most direct route available to you.”

Not the best. Not ideal. Not emotional. Direct. It was a useful word choice. “And if the person is Canadian,” he said.

“They are.”

There it was. Not a possibility. A fact. Ilya looked out through the glass and saw his own reflection faintly over the city. “You have already decided.”

“I decide whether a match is viable,” Julia said. “Yes.”

He should have pushed back. Asked for details. Asked who. Asked anything that made this feel less like he had already crossed into it. Instead he said, “And if I say no?”

“You may,” Julia said. “But you will return to a less stable path and a longer timeline.”

No pressure in her tone. No persuasion. Just consequence. He hated how effective that was. “What would I need to do?”

“Proceed.”

“You enjoy being vague.”

“I enjoy clarity,” she said. “You would need to understand that this is not temporary. Not symbolic. It is not a workaround to be discarded once it has served you.”

His hand tightened on the edge of the window frame. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” A pause. Then, more quietly than he intended, “I am not looking for temporary.”

Julia let that settle. “Good.”

He exhaled slowly.

“The Canadian question,” she said, “is not whether you would be open to it. It is whether you are capable of structuring your life around it.”

Ilya thought of travel schedules. Campaigns. Flights. Days counted in hotels and rehearsals and cities that blurred together until home became the place where the suitcases lived. Then he thought of Alexei. Of flagged transfers and a few more days and one more excuse. “Yes,” he said.

“Good.” The word came back clean, final. “You will proceed to the next phase,” Julia said. “You will receive logistical appointments shortly.”

The line remained open for half a second more. “Julia.”

“Yes.”

He almost asked who it was. Instead: “Are they aware of the jurisdictional issue?”

“No,” she said.

That surprised him enough to show in his voice. “Why?”

“Because it is not their issue,” Julia said. “It is yours.” Then she ended the call.

Ilya stood there for a long time after. The city outside hadn’t changed.

Canada.

Not abstract anymore. Not a concept or a strategic note Svetlana had once mentioned and he had brushed aside because there was always more time. A country. A route. A person he had not met. He reached up automatically and touched the small gold cross beneath his shirt, fingers resting there for one brief second before dropping away. Then he picked up his phone to call Svetlana.

Svetlana answered on the second ring. “Ilya.”

He moved through the apartment as she spoke, restless with nowhere useful to put it. “You were right.”

A pause. “I know. About which thing?”

He almost smiled. “Annoying answer.”

“Specificity is your friend. Try again.”

He stopped by the kitchen island and leaned both hands against it. “Canada.” They had spoken about it before, months ago. But Ilya had rejected it for reasons he couldn’t remember now.

That got her full attention. He could hear the shift in her silence.

“Tell me.”

He told her more than he had meant to. Not everything, but enough. Julia’s assessment. The follow-up call. The way Canada had been presented not as a possibility but as the only route that made real structural sense. Svetlana listened without interrupting.

When he finished, she said, “And how do you feel about that?”

“I feel,” he said, “that everyone in my life has apparently been waiting for me to catch up.”

“That is not an answer.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I feel like it is the most stable option.”

“You sound like Julia.”

“She is efficient.”

“She is expensive.”

“That also.”

Svetlana was quiet for a moment. “She is not wrong.”

“I know.”

“And?”

He exhaled. “And I do not like that I know.”

That got the smallest sound from her, not quite a laugh. “You were never going to like it,” she said. “You were only going to like being out of danger.” The bluntness of it made him still. Svetlana continued, her voice as precise as ever. “Canadian permanent residency through marriage is significantly more straightforward than what you are attempting in the U.S. It will not be immediate. It will not solve every problem. But it gives you a structure you do not currently have.”

“And citizenship.”

“Eventually, yes.”

He looked down at the stone beneath his hands. “How long?”

“For permanent residency, likely within a year if the application is clean and genuine. Citizenship later. But residency is the protection you need first.”

Protection. He hated that word less than dependence. “And if I continue modeling?”

“You can continue working,” she said. “You will need to be more deliberate about where you are physically based, how often you travel, how you account for your time. But yes.”

“Deliberate,” he repeated.

“You are capable of that.” He didn’t answer. Svetlana waited, then said more gently, “This is the first sensible thing I’ve heard from you in weeks.”

“I am touched.”

“You should be alarmed.”

He smiled despite himself, brief and sharp. “I am.”

The line went quiet again, but it felt different now. Less like legal consultation, more like what it had become over the years, the space where she stopped pretending his life was only paperwork and he stopped pretending her role in it was only professional. “Does Cliff know?” she asked.

“No.”

“Will he?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Another small pause. “And Alexei?”

Ilya’s mouth flattened. “Still stalling.”

“For how long?”

“I do not know.”

“You are running out of time.”

“I know.”

Svetlana did not soften that. “Then stop behaving as if the next excuse will hold forever.”

He let that land. “I am moving,” he said. “Just not as fast as you would like.”

“No,” she said. “As fast as you need.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed. “Tell Cliff. Follow Julia’s next steps. And do not send Alexei anything yet without speaking to me.”

That part surprised him. “You think I should still consider it.”

“I think you should stop improvising with people who would happily destroy you for less.”

Fair. “Okay.”

Svetlana was quiet for one last beat. Then: “And Ilya.”

“Yes?”

“If you are doing this, do it fully.”

He knew what she meant. Not legally. Not logistically. Not halfway. He looked out toward the window again, the city slowly darkening beyond it. “I know.” This time, when the call ended, he didn’t immediately move. He stood there with the phone still in his hand and the feeling, strange and unwelcome, that the path in front of him had just become clearer at exactly the same moment his choices narrowed.

***

The appointment was in Back Bay, on the upper floor of a building that looked almost anonymous from the street. No obvious signage, no display window, nothing to suggest what was inside unless you already knew. The lobby downstairs was polished stone and muted brass. The elevator required a code. Ilya liked that. He gave his name at reception and was taken upstairs without waiting. The woman who met him there moved with the kind of quiet efficiency that made the whole thing feel even more expensive. “Mr. Rozanov,” she said. “They’re ready for you.”

The fitting room was larger than it needed to be. Warm lighting, full-length mirrors, a low seating area off to one side that would have made sense if he had brought someone with him. He hadn’t. The space held that fact without commenting on it.

A single rack stood in the center of the room with three suits arranged evenly apart. The tailor stepped forward, hands loosely folded. “We’ve prepared three options based on your measurements and the requirements we were given.” 

Ilya’s gaze moved over them slowly. Light gray with a pale blue tie. Burgundy. Dark charcoal. He didn’t touch them immediately, just looked.

The gray was elegant in a way he could appreciate without wanting for himself. It was clean, controlled. The kind of suit that made no mistakes and invited no questions. He could already imagine the man Julia had chosen for him preferring it, though that thought came from nowhere useful and irritated him on instinct.

The charcoal was safer than the burgundy, but only barely. Fine wool, soft sheen, nothing wrong with it except the absence of anything specific enough to matter.

The burgundy drew the eye without demanding it. The color deepened where the fabric folded, richer in shadow, warmer where the light caught it.

“The charcoal first,” Ilya said. The tailor nodded once, as if he had expected that.

The fitting moved quickly. Jacket on, shoulders adjusted, trousers marked, the usual efficient choreography of hands and pins and soft instructions. Ilya stepped out in front of the mirror and looked at himself. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. That was almost the problem. The charcoal made him look expensive and self-contained and almost aggressively correct. There was nothing to criticize, which made it harder to feel anything about it at all.

The tailor watched him in the mirror. “This is very refined.”

Ilya turned slightly, checking the line of the jacket, the way it held through the waist. “Yes,” he said. It sounded noncommittal even to himself.

He changed again.

The gray altered him differently. The pale blue tie softened the whole look, giving it a restraint that might have seemed romantic on the right man. On him, it looked almost ironic. Too careful. Too polite. Too willing to disappear into someone else’s expectation of what marriage should look like. He stepped out and held his own gaze in the mirror.

The tailor adjusted the tie knot gently. “Very elegant.”

Ilya lifted one hand, touched the tie once, then let it fall. “It looks like I am interviewing for something boring,” he said.

The tailor’s expression didn’t shift, but there was the smallest pause before he said, “Then perhaps the third option.”

The burgundy changed the room the second he put it on. He felt it before he saw it. The weight of the color, the way it settled over his shoulders and sharpened the line of him without flattening anything out. It wasn’t loud, that would have been vulgar. It was simply impossible to mistake for caution. When he stepped in front of the mirror, he stopped.

The jacket sat close through the waist, clean at the shoulder, structured enough to hold him without pinning him in place. The color brought warmth into his face, making the gold at his throat feel inevitable rather than incidental. He looked like himself in it, or at least like the version of himself he understood best. Not softened. Not made respectable. Just intentional. 

The tailor came in behind him to adjust the collar. “This one suits you particularly well,” he said.

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly. “Obviously.” The man smiled faintly and went to work with the pins. “No tie,” Ilya said before he could be offered one.

The tailor’s hands paused at the collar. “Open shirt?”

“Yes.”

“That can be done.”

Ilya kept his gaze on the mirror while the adjustments were made. He should have been thinking about the logistics, about dates and paperwork and the person who would eventually see him in this and know, all at once, that he had chosen not to play safe. Instead he thought, briefly and against his will, of his mother. Not sentimentally. Just the strange fact of gold and color and ceremony, and how little of his life had ever made room for any of those things except on his terms.

The tailor stepped back at last. “Would you like to see the gray again before you decide?”

No.

The answer came into his head immediately, with enough force that he almost said it out loud. Instead he looked at himself once more in the burgundy, at the way the fabric caught the light and refused to apologize for it. “This one,” he said.

The tailor inclined his head. “An excellent choice.”

Of course it was. Measurements were refined after that. Trouser break discussed. Sleeve length settled. A quick conversation about shoes and whether the jacket should sit a fraction closer through the back. Ilya answered where necessary and let the rest pass over him. When it was done, the burgundy suit was taken away for final tailoring. The mirror reflected only him again, back in his own clothes, coat half-buttoned, hair slightly out of place from changing. The absence of the suit was abrupt enough to register. The tailor promised delivery within days. Everything would be prepared in time. Nothing to worry about, as if worry was the issue.

Ilya left the building and stepped out into the cold Boston air feeling, for the first time since Julia had become more than a message on a screen, that the whole thing had acquired weight. Fabric. Color. A body inside it. A date moving toward him whether he was ready or not. He put his sunglasses on though the sky didn’t require them and got into the waiting car. Only once the door had shut did he let himself think the obvious thing: The man on the other end of this was probably choosing something quieter. The thought made him smile. Not because it was funny, but because he was almost certain he was right.

***

The jewelry appointment was in Beacon Hill, behind a narrow door on a street lined with old brick and polished brass plaques. The kind of place you passed without noticing unless you’d been given the address directly.

Ilya had.

A woman in black opened the door before he could touch it and led him inside without asking his name. The room was quiet and pale and very carefully lit. No front-facing showroom, no customers wandering glass counters. Everything here happened by appointment and behind closed doors. The privacy of it made the whole thing feel less romantic than expensive, which suited him perfectly. “Mr. Rozanov,” the associate said as he sat. “We’ve prepared a selection.”

Two trays were set on the suede between them. The first held the safer options. Platinum. White gold. Narrow bands, matte finishes, understated textures meant to suggest taste so refined it didn’t need to announce itself. Ilya looked at them for all of ten seconds.

“Gold,” he said.

The associate smiled slightly, as if she had expected that answer from the moment he walked in. “Of course.”

The second tray was better. Yellow gold, warmer tones, a little more presence. Some were too embellished, others too thick, one with a ridged texture he disliked immediately. He moved through them slowly, fingertips resting against polished edges, lifting one band and then another. Under his shirt, the chain at his throat rested warm and familiar. The cross pendant hung where it always did, just below his collarbone. He touched it briefly through the fabric without thinking about it. 

The associate noticed. “We can match the tone if that’s important to you,” she said.

“It is.” That was answer enough. He chose more quickly after that. A wider yellow gold band than the others, polished enough to catch the light every time a hand moved. Not ornate, not vulgar, but impossible to mistake for modesty. The kind of ring that expected to be seen. “This one,” he said.

The associate picked it up with gloved hands and passed it across. It was heavier than the platinum rings had been. More present. Ilya slid it onto his finger and immediately liked the weight of it. He turned his hand once, watching the gold flare under the lights.

“It suits you,” the associate said.

“Yes,” he said.

No false humility. There was no need for it.

The associate placed a small card beside the tray. “Would you like to leave an inscription for your partner’s ring?”

Partner. That word again. Neutral enough to be useful. Intimate enough to be faintly irritating. Ilya looked down at the blank card. He could leave something in English. Something simple. Something the man would understand immediately. That would probably be the expected choice. Instead, almost before he finished deciding, he wrote, “зуб даю.”

He carefully printed the words and handed the card and pen back to her.

“Would you like a translation noted in the file?”

“No.” That came out sharper than intended. He softened it, slightly. “No, thank you. Just the inscription.”

The associate nodded and made no effort to ask why. He looked back at the ring on his finger. The phrase had come to him because it didn’t sound sentimental in Russian. It sounded certain. Almost cocky. A promise made with the assumption it would be believed. I swear. Count on it. Bet on it. The kind of thing he could write without feeling like he was exposing anything softer than intent. He wondered, briefly, what the man on the other end would make of it when it was eventually translated. If it would be translated. If his partner, whoever they were, would ask someone what it meant or wear it for days or weeks or even years without knowing. The idea should not have interested him. 

It interested Ilya greatly.

The associate discussed sizing, engraving turnaround, secure delivery. Ilya answered where he had to and let the rest move around him. The ring was taken away for final preparation. His hand felt oddly light without it. When he stood to leave, the associate said, “Everything will be ready in time.” Like the tailor had. Like time was the most manageable part of this.

Outside, the afternoon had gone colder. Wind moved down the street in quick sharp bursts, enough to make him pull his coat closer as he headed toward the waiting car. He sat in the back seat and looked down at his now-empty hand. Gold because he liked to be seen. Gold because it matched the necklace he never took off. Gold because, for all the reasons he could list that had to do with aesthetics and style and personal preference, there was still the quieter fact underneath them that he had wanted something that looked like it belonged to him before it belonged to the marriage.

He unlocked his phone. 

No new messages from Alexei. 

No new messages from Julia.

Ilya let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He leaned back and closed his eyes for one brief second as the car pulled away from the curb. Suit. Ring. Inscription. Each step making the whole thing less theoretical. He still had not told Cliff. That fact sat heavier now than it had that morning. By the time the car reached his building, he had already decided he couldn’t keep it to himself much longer. Not because he wanted to explain. Because he was running out of ways to avoid it.

***

Ilya left it too long. That was obvious even to him. The day had stretched past anything reasonable before he made it back to the apartment. Tailor. Jeweler. Calls taken outside, out of sight, like that made a difference. Messages answered too quickly or not at all. He had moved through all of it alone, managing each piece like it could stay separate if he kept it controlled enough.

It wasn’t separate anymore.

Cliff was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his tablet. There was a coffee going cold beside him, untouched for long enough that it had gone from habit to oversight. Ilya set his keys down. He took off his coat, put his phone on the counter, picked it up again almost immediately. He could feel the delay now. The space between when he should have said something and when he actually would.

Cliff glanced up, casual. “You survived.”

“I always survive.”

“That is not reassuring.” Ilya didn’t answer that. He crossed the kitchen instead, opened the refrigerator, closed it again without taking anything out. The movement didn’t help. Nothing did. “Busy day?” Cliff added.

“Yes.”

“Anything interesting?”

No.

Yes.

Everything.

Ilya shut the refrigerator door and leaned back against it, looking at nothing in particular. “I had appointments.”

Cliff made a vague sound of acknowledgment. “You usually do.”

“These were different.”

That got his attention. Cliff set the tablet down, finally looking at him properly. “Different how?”

Ilya hesitated. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because saying it would close something he hadn’t fully accepted yet. “Private,” he said.

Cliff’s mouth twitched slightly. “That is not suspicious at all.”

“It is not meant to be suspicious.”

“It’s doing a bad job.”

Ilya almost smiled. Almost. “Cliff.” That was enough to shift the tone.

Cliff straightened slightly. “Okay.”

A pause. Ilya looked down at his phone again, thumb brushing the edge of it without unlocking the screen. He didn’t need to check anything. There was nothing new there that would change what he was about to say. “I am getting married,” he said. He said it like a statement, like a fact that had already been decided somewhere else and was just now arriving in the room.

Cliff blinked once. Then again. “That’s not funny.”

“I am not joking.”

Silence. Cliff leaned back against the counter slowly, like he needed the support. “Okay.” Another pause. “Okay,” he repeated, more carefully. “To who?”

“I don’t know.”

That shifted everything. Cliff stared at him. “You don’t know,” he repeated, the disbelief clear.

“No.”

“You are getting married,” Cliff said, slower now, like he was translating it as he spoke, “and you do not know who it is.”

“Da. Yes.”

A longer silence. Cliff exhaled. “That feels like information I should have had earlier.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Cliff let out a short breath that could have been a laugh if there had been anything funny about it. “Right.”

Ilya pushed away from the refrigerator and moved back toward the counter, needing something solid to anchor himself to. He rested his hands against the stone. “There is process,” he said. “A matchmaker.”

“Of course there is,” Cliff said automatically.

Ilya ignored that. “They… What is word? Inspect both people. Compatibility. Structure.”

“Vet,” Cliff offered. “You sound like you’re pitching this to me,” he continued.

“I am explaining it.”

Cliff studied him for a second. “Why?”

There it was again. Not curiosity. Not judgment. Just the question that mattered. Ilya’s jaw tightened. He could have lied. He could have given Cliff the same controlled version he’d given Julia, the same language about stability and efficiency and removing uncertainty. It would have worked. It would not have been enough. Ilya chose honesty instead. Cliff deserved honesty. “My brother contacted me,” he said.

Cliff’s expression changed immediately. “Alexei.”

“Yes.”

“What does he want?”

“Money.”

Cliff’s mouth flattened. “That’s not new.”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“He has photographs.”

That stopped him. “Of you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Da. With a man.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything that had come before it. Cliff looked away for a second, then back, like he needed to reset something in his head. “Okay,” he said, quieter now. “How much?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

Cliff’s eyebrows lifted. “Jesus.”

“I know.”

“No,” Cliff said. “That is—” He stopped himself. Ilya didn’t help him. Cliff leaned forward, forearms braced on the counter now, closer. “And you thought getting married was the solution?”

“It is solution.”

“To what?”

“To everything that comes after,” Ilya said. “Citizenship. Stability. Protection.”

Cliff stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You’re actually serious.”

“I am not known for making jokes like this.”

“That’s not the concern.”

Ilya looked down at his hands, the way they rested flat against the counter. Still, controlled. He focused on that. “I stalled him,” he said. “In Milan. Then again this morning. But that only works for so long. I don’t want to pay. If I pay, he will demand more. If I don’t… It would be nice to not have Russian passport.”

“And this,” Cliff said, gesturing slightly, “works how?”

“Svetlana explained it,” Ilya said. “The U.S. path is unstable. Too slow. Canada is faster. Permanent residency through marriage. Then citizenship.”

Cliff’s expression shifted again, something sharper this time. “So you’re not just getting married?”

“No.”

“You’re doing it for citizenship.”

"Yes.” The word landed flat between them. Ilya hated how it sounded out loud. Too clean, too transactional.

Cliff didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it was again. Not accusation. Just… hurt.

Ilya exhaled slowly. “Because once I said it out loud, it became real.”

Cliff held his gaze. “It is real,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like it isn’t?”

Ilya looked away. Because if he treated it like it was real, then everything that came with it became real too. The marriage. The person. The permanence of it. The fact that he was choosing something he couldn’t walk away from the way he walked away from everything else. “I was handling it,” he said.

Cliff shook his head. “No. You were avoiding it.”

Ilya didn’t argue.

Cliff’s voice softened slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”

Ilya let out a quiet breath. “I know.”

“You could have told me.”

“I am telling you now.”

Cliff nodded once. “Okay.”

It wasn’t agreement, it wasn’t approval. It was acceptance. That was somehow worse. And better.

“I’m sorry,” Cliff said after a second.

Ilya frowned. “For what?”

“For joking about it,” Cliff said. “I thought you were just being… you.”

“That is still accurate.”

“Not like this,” Cliff said. Another pause. Then, more quietly, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words settled somewhere deeper than Ilya expected. He looked at Cliff again, properly this time. “I know,” he said. And this time, it felt more true.

Cliff nodded, satisfied with that for now. “Good.”

He pushed off the counter and reached for his keys. “Come on.”

Ilya didn’t move. “Where?”

“You need a drink.”

“I do not need drink.”

“You look like you haven’t taken a full breath in two days,” Cliff said. “So. Drink.”

Ilya hesitated. Then nodded once. “Okay.”

***

The bar was loud enough to blur the edges of everything. Dark enough that no one could look too closely. They took a table in the back.

Cliff ordered Vodka, the good Russian kind. Ilya didn’t argue. For a while, they didn’t talk about it again. They talked about schedules. About Milan. About a campaign Cliff was trying to shift around because Ilya’s availability was about to become something else entirely. It was easier to sit in that for a few minutes, to let the conversation move in familiar patterns. But the thing they had said didn’t go away. It sat there between them, quieter now, but still present.

Cliff picked up his glass and looked at him. “We’ll figure it out.”

Ilya met his gaze. There were a dozen ways that could have been said. Dismissive. Overconfident. Empty. It wasn’t any of those. “Okay,” Ilya said. He took a drink. The vodka was smooth, and for the first time all day, something in his chest loosened just enough to notice.

Not relief, not yet.

But the sense that he had stopped holding the entire thing by himself. And that, for now, was enough.

Chapter End Notes

зуб даю - Literal translation: To give a tooth. While it may not be obvious, this idiom is similar to the English idiom, “Cross my heart.”; credit to Esenina on Reddit for help with the inscription; This is what happens when I don't sleep for 2 days.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five - Shane

There were two more people Shane had to tell. He had been putting it off more deliberately than he wanted to admit. He wasn't avoiding it. He was structuring around it. He was letting the days fill with other things that felt easier to complete.

Shane had drafted messages anyway. Too many of them. Short ones that felt careless. Longer ones that tried to explain too much and ended up sounding like something written for a client instead of people who actually knew him. One that read so strangely even to himself that he deleted it immediately, unsettled by how little it sounded like him. He didn’t send any of them. He wasn’t unsure of the decision. That wasn’t the problem. He was unsure of the explanation. With his parents, there had been a structure to lean on. Questions he could answer. Concerns he could anticipate.

With Hayden and Jackie, it was different. They knew him too well. He deleted another message, thumb hovering over the empty screen for a second longer than necessary.

Then his phone buzzed.

Dinner tomorrow? Jackie says she found a new salmon recipe. 7pm.

Shane stared at it. Of course.

He didn’t type anything back, didn’t try to reshape it into something that matched the weight of what he needed to say. He liked the message, left it on read, then set his phone down on the desk. It was easier this way. He would tell them in person.

Shane leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting toward the window without really seeing anything outside of it. He wasn’t worried they would judge him. That wasn’t it. Hayden and Jackie weren’t built that way. He was worried they wouldn’t understand. Worried that when he explained it, it would sound exactly like what it was, that he wouldn’t be able to frame it the way he had with his parents, wouldn’t be able to make it make sense beyond the structure he’d built around it. What if he couldn’t? What if they looked at him and saw something he hadn’t accounted for? Not reckless. Not impulsive. Just… wrong?

What if they didn’t come? The thought landed harder than the rest.

Shane sat with it for a moment longer than he should have, then reached for his phone again, more out of habit than intent. The message was still there. Simple. Uncomplicated. Dinner. 7pm. He set the phone back down. He could do this. He just wasn’t sure how much of it depended on them saying yes.

***

Shane arrived at 6:59 with a bottle of wine. Not because Hayden and Jackie expected it, they never did, but because he had been invited to dinner, and dinner required a contribution, and a bottle of wine was the least complicated option.

Hayden opened the door before Shane had fully lowered his hand from knocking. “Right on time,” Hayden said, grinning.

“One minute early.”

“Show-off.”

Shane handed him the bottle. “For dinner.”

“Jackie will pretend we’re classy now.”

From somewhere inside, Jackie called, “I heard that.”

The house was quieter than Shane expected when he stepped in. No footsteps overhead, no sudden shrieking from the twins, no Arthur talking too loudly over everyone, no Amber appearing from nowhere to ask a question with no context. “Kids are asleep?” Shane asked, shrugging out of his coat.

“By some miracle, yes,” Hayden said. “Ruby fought it on principle, Jade negotiated for ten more minutes of reading, Arthur claimed he wasn’t tired and then fell asleep sitting up, and Amber cried because her sock felt wrong.”

Shane nodded. “That seems comprehensive.” Hayden laughed and led him toward the kitchen. Jackie was at the counter, setting out plates with the relaxed precision of someone who had spent all day with small children and still somehow had the patience to make dinner look intentional.

“Hi,” she said, coming over to hug him.

Shane accepted it stiffly at first, then softened into it a fraction. “Hi.”

“You brought wine.”

“Social etiquette.”

“God, I missed you,” Jackie said, smiling as she took it from Hayden. “Sit. Food’s almost done.”

Dinner was salmon, as promised, with roasted vegetables and farro Jackie described as “healthy enough to count, but not so healthy it ruins the night.” Shane sat across from Hayden, Jackie at the end of the table between them, and did what he had been doing all week. He kept the conversation away from himself. “How are the kids?” he asked.

That was safe. Easy. Effective. Jackie lit up first. “Jade is very into graphic novels right now. Like, intensely. She’s started drawing her own panels, which would be cute if she hadn’t made one of the characters very clearly based on me.”

“Was the characterization fair?” Shane asked.

“Brutal,” Jackie said.

Hayden pointed his fork at her. “Accurate, though.”

“Do not support this.”

“What about Ruby?” Shane asked before the conversation could turn back toward him.

Hayden leaned back. “Ruby has decided she’s going to be a goalie.”

Shane looked at him. “In hockey?”

“No, Shane, in competitive dentistry.”

Jackie laughed. Shane allowed himself the faintest smile. “That seems like a stressful choice.”

“She likes the gear,” Hayden said. “And the drama.”

“That tracks,” Jackie added. “She told me she wanted to be the most important person on the ice.”

“She’s not wrong,” Hayden said, with the conviction of a gym teacher and peewee hockey coach who had had this argument before.

Shane cut into his salmon, focusing too much on the angle of his knife. “And Arthur?”

“Obsessed with bugs,” Jackie said. “Deeply. Horrifyingly.”

“He brought a beetle into the kitchen yesterday,” Hayden said. “In his hand. Like it was a gift.”

“It was a gift,” Jackie said. “That was the problem.” 

Shane asked another question. Then another. Amber’s school adjustment. Hayden’s peewee team. Jackie’s art class. Whether middle schoolers were worse than elementary schoolers or just louder. Whether Arthur was still refusing to wear jeans. Whether Jade and Ruby were still pretending they didn’t like the same books while reading them simultaneously. He could do this all night.

He almost did.

The rhythm of it helped. Their house helped. Hayden and Jackie helped, without knowing they were doing it. They filled the space naturally, warmly, without demanding anything from him. But the longer he waited, the worse it became. Every question he asked felt like one more deliberate omission. How was work, Hayden asked at one point, and Shane answered with enough detail to satisfy him and not enough to invite follow-up. Busy. A merger. A difficult opposing counsel. Junior associates who needed more supervision than expected.  All true. None of it relevant.

By dessert, Shane’s chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Jackie set down bowls of Greek yogurt with berries, honey, and chopped pistachios.

“Dessert,” she said, “but morally defensible.”

Hayden looked at his bowl. “This is breakfast.”

“It has honey.”

“Still breakfast.”

“It’s dessert if I say it is.”

Shane picked up his spoon and said nothing. Hayden watched him from across the table. That was the problem with people who knew him well. They noticed silence differently.

“You’re acting weird,” Hayden said.

Shane’s spoon paused.

Jackie looked between them. “Hayden.”

“What? He is.”

“I’m not,” Shane said.

Hayden raised an eyebrow. Shane set the spoon down. The room went quiet. Not tense, just waiting. He had rehearsed this. Badly. Many times. None of the versions were available now. “I need to tell you something,” he said.

Jackie’s expression shifted immediately, softening into concern. “Okay.”

Shane looked at the table rather than either of them. “I’m getting married.”

Silence.

Then Hayden said, “Oh.”

Jackie blinked. “Okay.”

Shane waited. Neither of them said anything else. He looked up, thrown by the absence of immediate alarm. “That’s it?”

Hayden’s brow furrowed. “Was there supposed to be more?”

“Yes,” Shane said. “Obviously.”

Jackie leaned forward slightly. “To someone we know?”

“No.”

Another pause. “To someone you know?” Hayden asked.

“No.” Hayden sat back. Jackie’s eyes widened, but not in the way Shane had feared. Not judgment. Surprise. Shane continued before he could lose the thread. “There’s a matchmaker. Private. Very structured. Both people are vetted. There are psychological assessments, legal agreements, compatibility screenings. We don’t meet until the ceremony.”

Hayden stared at him. Jackie said, very carefully, “You don’t meet until the ceremony.”

“No.”

“Wow,” Hayden said.

Shane’s stomach dropped. “I know how it sounds.”

“Insane?” Hayden offered. Jackie kicked him lightly under the table. “Ow.”

Shane’s face warmed. “That’s not helpful.”

“No, sorry,” Hayden said quickly. “I don’t mean bad insane. Just… objectively, as a concept, that’s a lot.”

“I’ve thought it through,” Shane said, too fast.

“I know,” Jackie said. That stopped him. She reached across the table, not quite touching him, but close enough that the gesture mattered. “Shane, we know you.”

Hayden nodded. “You don’t accidentally do major life events. You don't accidentally do anything.”

Shane looked between them. “You’re not concerned?”

“Oh, we are concerned,” Hayden said. “But not in a ‘we think you’re an idiot’ way.” Jackie gave him a look. “What? I’m clarifying.”

Shane swallowed. “I thought you might not understand.”

“We might not,” Jackie said gently. “Not fully. But we don’t have to understand every part of it to support you.”

That was not what he had expected. He had prepared for questions, for doubt, for them trying to talk him out of it. For Hayden making a joke that landed wrong, for Jackie going quiet in the way that meant she was worried and trying not to show it. He had not prepared for this.

Hayden leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Listen. You could be making the worst decision of your entire life.”

“Hayden,” Jackie warned.

“No, let me finish.” Hayden looked at Shane directly. “You could be. I don’t know. You don’t know. Nobody knows. But you’re family. That part isn’t conditional.”

Shane went still.

Hayden continued, quieter now. “We don’t care what you do or why you decide to do it, not in the sense that it changes whether we show up for you. If this goes great, we’re there. If it goes sideways, we’re there. If it ends up being the weirdest story any of us have ever told, which, to be clear, it already is, we’re still there.”

Jackie’s smile was small and warm. “He’s right.”

Shane looked down. His throat felt tight, unexpectedly and inconveniently. “I need you there,” he said. The words came out quieter than he meant them to.

Jackie’s hand covered his then, gentle but certain. “Then we’ll be there.”

Hayden nodded once, like it had never been a question. “Tell us when and where.”

Shane took a breath. It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t make the decision less frightening, or the future less unknowable, or the person waiting at the end of all of this any less a stranger. But something in him eased, just enough. “I don’t know all the details yet,” he said.

Hayden picked up his spoon again. “That’s fine. Eat your breakfast dessert.”

Jackie laughed softly. Shane looked at them, then at the bowl in front of him, and for the first time all night, smiled without having to think about it.

***

The next afternoon, everything arrived at once. The courier didn’t linger. A signature, a brief exchange, then the door closed and Shane was left standing in the entryway with more weight in his hands than the packages should have accounted for. He set the ring box on the counter first. He didn’t open it.

The garment bag came next. He carried it to the bedroom, unzipped it just enough to confirm what he already knew, then hung it carefully in the closet, spacing it slightly apart from the rest of his suits. It didn’t belong with them, not yet.

When he came back out, the envelope was still on the counter. Large. Manilla. Unremarkable in a way that felt intentional. He picked it up and moved to the sofa, sitting down before opening it, as if the act required more attention than standing allowed. Inside were smaller envelopes. Three.

He laid them out on the coffee table in front of him, aligning them without thinking.

One was thicker. Structured. It held multiple inserts, the weight of it immediately obvious.

Another was addressed to him. His name written in a controlled, elegant hand. Not decorative. Just precise enough to feel deliberate.

The third was unmarked. No name. No indication of what it contained.

Shane looked at them for a moment. He had a sense of the order already. Not because it had been explained, but because Julia’s process had established its own logic. Personal before procedural. Direct before contextual. He picked up the one with his name. The paper inside was heavier than standard stock. Smooth. Expensive in the way everything associated with this had been. The note itself was brief.

Shane,

You have completed everything required of you, with the exception of the ceremony. Enclosed are the details, invitations, and travel arrangements.

The man I have chosen for you requested permission to send a letter. It is included.

You know how to reach me.

Julia

Shane read it once, then again. Nothing in it was unexpected. That didn’t make it easier. He set the note down on the table, his hand resting briefly against it before pulling away. His attention shifted immediately, almost involuntarily, to the unmarked envelope.

It felt lighter. Thinner. Out of place. That was the problem. Everything else in the room followed a structure, a sequence. A set of expectations he had learned quickly enough to anticipate. This didn’t.

A letter. Requested. Granted. He couldn’t think of a reason it would have been necessary. Or allowed. The entire premise of the process was built around controlled distance, around removing variables before they could complicate anything. This was a variable. He considered it. What it might contain. A name? It shouldn’t. A description? That seemed more likely. Or something less useful? Something personal enough to disrupt the structure without actually breaking it. He could open it.

He didn’t. Not yet.

His hand moved instead to the thicker envelope. Predictable, expected.

He opened it cleanly and slid the contents out, setting them in a neat stack before separating them one by one. Ceremony details. Timing. Location. A schedule that was exact without being overwhelming. Travel confirmations. The honeymoon, already arranged.

He read everything carefully twice. By the time he was finished, the structure had reasserted itself. The unknowns were still there, but they were contained within something that felt, if not manageable, then at least defined. 

Only then did he reach for the invitations. There were ten. He took the first one from the stack.

The invitation was heavier than he expected. Of course it was. He held it at the edges for a second before bringing it fully into view, eyes moving over it the way he read contracts, instinctively scanning for structure before meaning. The paper was soft in tone, not quite white. The kind of off-white that felt chosen rather than default. There was no excess ink, no flourish competing for attention. Just space, precision. 

At the top, an embossed arch. It caught the light only when he tilted it slightly, the impression so subtle it almost wasn’t there unless you were looking for it. A structure without ornament. Suggestive, not decorative. Centered beneath it, a thin gold line intersected by a small circle. Minimal. Exact. Not a symbol he recognized, which meant it had been created for this. For the process. For her. Julia.

He read the text next.

You are requested to be present

at the marriage of

Shane Hollander

The name sat larger than everything else. Not oversized, just undeniable. Set in a serif that felt traditional without leaning into it. Nothing sentimental about it. Nothing softened. He felt that, unexpectedly. Not pride. Not exactly. Recognition. His gaze moved down.

Saturday, May 2

at five o’clock in the evening

L’Atrium Céleste

The venue name was slightly raised, the embossing more noticeable here, as if it mattered that it be felt as much as seen. He ran his thumb lightly over it without thinking. It felt real in a way the conversations hadn’t. The phone calls, the assessments, the scheduling. All of that had been contained. Structured. Manageable because it lived in language and timing and logistics. This didn’t. This was physical. Finished. Something that could be held. He read the last line.

Reception to follow

Of course. Shane exhaled slowly, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath somewhere between the first line and the last. He set the invitation back down on the table, but not as carefully as before. Not carelessly either. Just… aware of its weight now. There was nothing excessive about it. No flowers. No script fonts trying to make the moment feel softer than it was. No attempt to dress the decision up as something it wasn’t. It looked exactly like the process had felt. Intentional. Controlled. Final. Shane looked at it again. 

Then, quieter, almost to himself: “Okay.” Not doubt. Not certainty, either. Just acknowledgment. It existed now. He slid the invitation back into its envelope, and then put them all back into the larger one and set it aside.

The only one left was the unmarked envelope. He had been aware of it the entire time. Shane picked it up from the table. It was ordinary. Standard weight. The kind of envelope that wouldn’t have drawn attention anywhere else. Here, it felt heavier than everything else combined. He turned it once in his hand, as if there might be something to read that wasn’t there. There wasn’t.

He opened it. The paper inside slid out easily. Not the same stock as Julia’s. Lighter. Practical. The difference was immediate.

The letter was typed. That gave him pause. He hadn’t realized, until that moment, that he had expected handwriting. Something personal enough to study. Something that might offer shape, pressure, hesitation. This offered none of that. Just words.

His eyes moved to the first line. He stopped. The greeting was in Cyrillic. It took a second for his brain to catch up, to shift, to translate. Not fluently. Not comfortably. But enough.

Супруг. Spouse.

Shane blinked once, the adjustment sharper than he expected. Russian. That was new. That was information he hadn’t been given, hadn’t had a way to anticipate. It changed the outline of the person immediately, even if it didn’t fill anything in. Did his match know he could read it? The thought came and stayed longer than it should have. If he did, that meant something. If he didn’t, it meant something else. Shane set that aside for later.

He read.

Супруг,

I ask Julia if I can write to you because I think you should know some things before Saturday.

I am Russian citizen. I am also bisexual. This is not problem for me in most places, but it can become problem depending where I am and who is paying attention.

I travel for work. I am used to it. It has been fine until now.

Something changed.

I will not write everything here. It is not good to put too much in writing. But I have situation now where citizenship and travel can become… complicated. Maybe more than complicated. I should have made different decisions earlier. I did not.

Because of this, I contact Julia.

I want to say this clearly so you understand: this is not only reason.

I do not know your reasons. Maybe they are practical. Maybe they are not. Mine are both.

I would understand if you decide this is not for you after reading this. It would be fair. It would maybe be smart. But I think it is not fair to you if I do not tell you before we stand there and say something that cannot be taken back.

If you continue, you do it knowing this.

If you do not, I will understand.

I will be there Saturday.

I hope you will be also.

твой муж (hopefully)

Shane read it over again. The grammar was slightly off in places. Not incorrect enough to obscure meaning, but enough to make the voice behind it more distinct. Direct. Controlled. Not careless. Just… translated. There was no name. Of course there wasn’t. No description. No detail he could use to build anything concrete. Just information placed exactly where it needed to be and nothing more.

Russian. Bisexual. Travels for work. Something changed.

Citizenship.

Shane exhaled slowly. It wasn’t what he had expected. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Something softer, maybe. Or something more guarded. This was neither. It was precise in a way that felt almost procedural, except for the fact that it didn’t have to exist at all. The fact of it was the disruption.

His gaze went back to the first word.

Супруг. Spouse.

Not a guess. Not a placeholder. A statement. Shane set the letter down carefully on the table, separate from the others. Not stacked. Not aligned. Just placed. He sat back slightly, the weight of it settling in. The process had been controlled from the beginning. Structured. Designed to remove variables. This was a variable. And it changed things. Not enough to stop, but enough that he felt it. He looked at the letter again.

***

Shane hadn’t realized how much there was to do. It wasn’t the decision. That had been made, cleanly, with a kind of certainty he trusted. It was everything that followed. The parts no one outlined. The things that existed around the edges of a life and suddenly needed to be rearranged to make space for someone else.

He delivered the invitations first. Hayden and Jackie. His parents. One set aside in his bag for Rose, though she already knew everything that mattered and more than most people ever would.

Then there was work. That should have been straightforward. It was work. It always was. 

It wasn’t.

He had cases to transition, clients to notify, files to reassign. Conversations that required explanation without actually explaining anything. He had to tell the firm he was taking time off.

Time off.

Shane sat at his desk for longer than necessary before sending that email. Nine years at the firm without taking more than a long weekend. His billables were well beyond what anyone could reasonably question, and still, the act of asking felt… unnatural. He sent it anyway. The replies came back quickly. Supportive. Predictable. Efficient. That should have settled something. It didn’t.

Because once work was addressed, there was nothing left to focus on except the rest of it. Logistics. The word itself felt insufficient.

Where were they going to live when they came back?

His apartment was set up for one person. Deliberately. Clean lines. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing shared. His match traveled, according to the letter. That suggested flexibility. It didn't answer the question. Did he assume they would stay here? Did he ask? He couldn’t ask. Not yet. So he had to decide. Except every option created another question. If he didn’t prepare, it would look careless. If he did too much, it would look presumptuous.

A guest room made up suggested distance. Not making it up suggested expectation. Clearing space in his closet implied permanence. Not clearing it implied resistance.

He stood in the middle of his bedroom, looking at the closet like it might offer an answer. It didn’t. His chest tightened. That happened quickly. Faster than he liked. A shift from thinking to something closer to pressure, his thoughts starting to move too fast to follow in any useful way. Shane sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed and bent forward, elbows on his knees, head lowered.

Breathe.

In for four.

Hold.

Out for four.

Hold.

Again.

It took longer than he expected for it to settle. Longer than it should have. When he sat back up, slower this time, his hands were still steady enough to pick up his phone.

Rose.

He didn’t think about it. He just called. The line connected, and Shane started talking before she could say anything. “Do I make up the room? Do I clear out half my closet? Do I move my things into storage? Do I assume he’s staying here? Do I—”

“Shane.” Her voice cut cleanly through it. He stopped. “Breathe.” He did. Loud enough that she could hear it. In, hold, out, hold. Once. Twice. “Again,” she said. He did it again. “Okay,” she said after a beat. “Now listen to me.” Shane leaned back slightly against the headboard, phone pressed to his ear like it might anchor him there. “You’re going to make up the guest room,” Rose said. “Properly. Sheets, towels, space in the bathroom. Not temporary. Not half-done.”

Shane nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Okay.”

“You are not touching your closet,” she continued. “You are not moving anything. You are not preemptively reorganizing your entire life for a man you have not met.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“It is reasonable,” she said. “If, on your honeymoon, the two of you decide you want to share a room, you can come back and move your things. That is a two-hour problem. Not a today problem.” Shane exhaled slowly. That helped. The distinction. Today versus later. “The guest bathroom is already functional,” Rose added. “Have your cleaning service come in on Friday. Tell them you’re expecting someone. They will handle it.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can.” A pause. “Groceries,” she said.

Shane blinked. “What?”

“You’re not coming back from your honeymoon to an empty kitchen,” Rose said. “Order a delivery for the day before you get back. I’ll go over and put everything away.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m going to anyway.”

Shane closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you.”

There was a small shift in her tone at that. Softer, but not indulgent. “Of course,” she said.

He sat with that for a second, letting the structure of it settle into place. Guest room. Leave everything else alone. Cleaning service. Groceries. Each piece small enough to handle. None of it requiring him to solve the entire situation at once.

Rose continued, already moving ahead of him. “Work?”

“Handled.”

“Clients?”

“In progress.”

“Firm?”

“I sent the email.”

“And?”

“They approved it.”

“Obviously.”

A faint exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yes.”

“Good,” Rose said. “Then you’re done for today.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“It is,” she said. “You’re not going to solve the rest of your life in the next three hours.”

Shane looked out toward the window, the city steady and unchanged beyond it. “I’m aware.”

“Are you?” He didn’t answer that. Rose let it pass. “You’ve done everything that actually needs to be done right now. The rest is noise.” That felt accurate in a way he didn’t want to admit.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” she echoed. A brief pause, then, “Shane.”

“Yes?”

“You’re fine.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Not because he disagreed, but because he needed a second to believe it.

“Okay,” he said again, quieter this time.

“Good,” Rose said. “Now stop spiraling.”

“I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You were absolutely spiraling.”

He let out a breath that was closer to a laugh this time. “Yeah, I was.”

“I know,” she said.

Another pause. “Thank you,” he said again.

This time, she didn’t brush it off. “I’ve got you,” Rose said simply.

Shane leaned back fully against the headboard, the tension in his chest finally easing into something manageable. “Yeah,” he said. He believed that.

***

Shane woke before his alarm. The light was already there, thin and clean through the edges of the blinds, the kind of morning that didn’t leave room for hesitation. He lay still for a few seconds, registering it. The quiet. The absence of anything that felt different and the awareness that everything was.

May 2.

He sat up. The apartment looked the same. That helped. The lines of it. The order. Nothing out of place. The suit still hung in the closet, separate from everything else. The ring box still on the counter where he’d left it the night before. He moved through the morning the way he moved through everything that mattered. Deliberately. Coffee. A small breakfast he barely tasted. Water. Shoes by the door.

The run came next. The air was cool, but not cold. The kind of spring morning that felt intentional. The sky was clear, bright without being harsh. The city hadn’t fully settled into itself yet, sidewalks quieter than they would be in an hour.

Shane ran without music. He needed the rhythm. The repetition. Breath in, breath out, feet hitting pavement in a pattern he didn’t have to think about. It steadied something in him that had been tight all week. The structure of it. The control. People passed him. A couple walking a dog. Someone pushing a stroller. A man in a suit talking too loudly on his phone. None of it registered beyond movement. He didn’t think about the ceremony. He didn’t think about the man waiting at the other end of it. He thought about his pace. His breathing. The route he’d taken a hundred times before. By the time he turned back toward his building, the tightness in his chest had eased into something quieter. Not gone. Just… contained. That was enough.

He showered, dressed, and packed what was left. The suitcase had been ready since the night before. Efficient. Structured. He checked it anyway. Passport. Documents. Clothing. The ring box, placed carefully in the inner pocket. The suit in its garment bag. He stood in the doorway of his apartment for a second before leaving. Then he left.

***

His parents’ house was louder than usual. Shane paused just inside the entryway, registering it before he saw it. Movement. Voices. The distinct overlap of children who had decided that morning was an acceptable time to be fully awake and fully present.

“Uncle Shane!” Amber appeared first, fast enough that he barely had time to react before she had attached herself to his leg.

“Hi,” he said, automatically reaching down.

“You’re getting married,” she said, like she was announcing something she had personally arranged.

“So I’ve been told.”

Arthur followed, slower but no less direct, holding something in his hand that looked like it might be a rock.

“Is it today?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Cool,” Arthur said, as if that settled it.

Jade and Ruby were already at the table, identical expressions of curiosity aimed directly at him, though neither said anything immediately.

“Give him a second,” Jackie called from the kitchen.

Hayden appeared behind her, coffee in hand. “There he is.”

Shane stepped further into the house, shifting Amber gently so he could move. “Hi.”

“You look like you slept,” Hayden said.

“I did.”

“Suspicious.”

Rose was at the counter, already dressed, already composed in a way that suggested she had been awake longer than everyone else. “You’re on time,” she said.

“Always.”

She gave him a quick once-over, not critical. Assessing. Then nodded, satisfied.

“Good.”

Breakfast was less structured than it usually was. More movement. More noise. Plates passed around, conversations overlapping, the kids asking questions that weren’t entirely connected to each other. Shane let it happen. He sat. He ate. He answered when he needed to. Let Hayden fill in gaps. Let Jackie redirect when the kids got too close to something that didn’t need to be explained yet. It helped. The familiarity of it. The way the space held him without requiring anything more than his presence.

Rose stayed mostly quiet, watching everything with the kind of attention that suggested she was already thinking three steps ahead. By the time they finished, the house had shifted again. Coats gathered. Shoes found. Keys picked up. “Cars,” Hayden said, already moving toward the door. They split without discussion. Shane ended up with Rose. Of course he did. The drive was quiet at first. The city had fully woken now. Traffic moving steadily, sunlight reflecting off glass and steel in a way that made everything feel sharper than usual. Shane kept his eyes forward.

“You’re fine,” Rose said after a minute.

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Do you want to talk?” she asked.

“No.”

“Also good.” He let out a small breath that might have been a laugh. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

***

L’Atrium Céleste sat above the city. That was the first thing Shane registered when they stepped out of the elevator. Glass, everywhere.

The room extended outward in all directions, walls replaced entirely by floor-to-ceiling panels that dissolved any real boundary between inside and outside. Old Montréal stretched below them, the lines of the buildings sharp and historic against the brightness of the morning. The St. Lawrence River cut through it, wide and steady, catching the light in long, uninterrupted bands. The Old Port sat just beyond, movement visible but distant enough to feel removed. Downtown rose in the opposite direction, modern and structured, glass reflecting glass.

The space itself was restrained. Of course it was. White and soft neutral tones grounded the room without competing with the view. Chairs arranged in clean, deliberate lines, not too many, not too few. The aisle defined not by decoration but by space. A subtle runner that caught the light differently than the floor beneath it. At the front, there was no traditional arch. Instead, a slight elevation. A shift in flooring. A focal point created by positioning rather than ornament. A small, abstract installation behind it, something geometric in brushed metal that echoed the invitation’s mark. Intentional without being explained. 

There were flowers, but not in a way that drew attention. Low arrangements. White, pale green, nothing overly romantic. Structured rather than soft. Balanced against the glass, against the view, against the light. It worked. It felt like him. And not. There was something sharper in the lines. Something less controlled in the way the space opened outward instead of inward. Something that didn’t belong entirely to him and wasn’t trying to.

Shane took that in without fully understanding it. They were the first to arrive. Julia stood near the front, exactly where she would be. She turned as they approached, her expression unchanged.

“You’re on time,” she said.

“Yes.”

She looked past him briefly, taking in the rest of the group as they filtered in behind. Hayden. Jackie. The kids, quieter now, subdued by the space. His parents. Julia moved through them with quiet efficiency, directing without seeming to. Seating arranged. Coats taken. Small adjustments made that shifted the room into readiness.

“Shane,” she said after a moment. He stepped forward. “This way.” 

She led him to a small room off to the side. Not large. Just enough space to separate him from the rest of it. A chair. A mirror. A place to wait. Rose followed. The door closed behind them. For a second, the quiet pressed in. Shane looked at his reflection. Suit in place. Tie straight. Expression composed in a way that felt practiced and real at the same time. 

Rose stepped beside him. “Are you ready?” she asked.

He held his own gaze in the mirror for one more second. “Yes,” he said.

The door opened.

And they stepped out.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six - Ilya

“Ilya, we need to go over your schedule.”

Ilya didn’t look up. He sat at the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around his coffee, the other resting flat against the counter like he needed the surface to stay steady. The light coming through the windows was too bright for how little he had slept. If he'd slept at all. It hadn’t felt like it. He took another sip instead of answering. If he ignored Cliff long enough, there was a chance the problem would go away. It did not.

“Ilya.” The tone shifted slightly. Sharper, familiar.

Ilya exhaled through his nose and mimicked it without lifting his gaze. “Cliff.”

There was a pause. Then the sound of the iPad being set down harder than necessary. “I’m serious,” Cliff said. “There’s a lot to rearrange, and I need you to actually participate in this.”

Ilya finally looked up. Cliff was already watching him, stylus in one hand, tablet open in the other, fully in work mode in a way that felt aggressive this early in the day. “Is too early for this,” Ilya said.

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Early.”

Cliff stared at him for a second, then shook his head once, like he was choosing not to argue that particular point. “Fine. You can be tired. You cannot be useless.”

“I am never useless.”

“Debatable.”

Ilya ignored that and went back to his coffee. Cliff didn’t wait.

“You have meetings in Japan, Korea, and Brazil,” he said, already scrolling. “All of them are currently scheduled in person. All of them conflict with you disappearing to get married.” Ilya made a small, unimpressed sound. Cliff turned the screen toward him. “You want to look at this or just trust me.”

“I trust you to complain,” Ilya said.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Ilya leaned forward slightly, just enough to glance at the screen. Dates. Times. Flights. A schedule that had made sense three days ago and now didn’t. “They can be Zoom,” he said.

“Yes,” Cliff said. “They can. But they’re going to ask why.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. That was the part he hadn’t fully decided on. Not the logistics. The explanation. He wasn’t interested in lying outright. It created more problems than it solved. But he also wasn’t interested in making announcements.

“The news will come out anyway,” Cliff added, like he could see the calculation happening. “You’re not exactly subtle as a person.”

“I am very subtle.”

Cliff raised an eyebrow.

Ilya took another sip of his coffee. “Tell them truth,” he said finally. “But not full truth. I am getting married. That is enough.”

“And when they ask follow-up questions?”

“They will,” Ilya said. “You will not answer them.”

Cliff considered that, then nodded slowly. “That’s going to be… interesting.”

“Is fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Cliff said. “It’s just what we’re doing.”

“That is definition of fine.”

Cliff didn’t bother responding to that. He made a note instead. “What about your management team,” he said, shifting. “I spoke to Svetlana yesterday.”

That got Ilya’s attention more fully. “And?”

“She wants a formal meeting,” Cliff said. “Not a phone call. She said there are ‘specific considerations’ she needs to walk you through.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Of course.”

Cliff watched him for a second. “You already knew that.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I am telling you now.”

“That’s not how time works.”

Ilya ignored that. “Set meeting for Friday,” he said. “On Zoom.”

Cliff blinked. “Friday.”

“Yes.”

“You want to be in Canada by Friday.”

“Yes.”

Cliff looked down at the schedule again, then back up. “That’s aggressive.”

Ilya shrugged slightly. “Alexei will want money by then.” The name sat between them for a second. 

Cliff didn’t comment on it this time. Just adjusted his grip on the stylus. “And if something happens with your passport before that?” Cliff asked carefully.

“Then I am already there,” Ilya said. “In same country as man I am supposed to marry.” The words came out flat. Practical.

Cliff studied him for a moment, like he was deciding whether to push further. He didn’t. “Okay,” he said instead. “Friday.” He made another note. “Travel,” he continued. “You want me booking that now or waiting until after the meeting?”

“Book it,” Ilya said. “Morning flight. I do not want delays.”

“Of course you don’t. Where are you staying?” Cliff asked. “Hotel, or do you want me to start looking at apartments?”

Ilya leaned back slightly, the edge of the counter pressing into his spine. “No real estate,” he said.

“Not even temporary?”

“Not yet.”

Cliff nodded once. “Hotel, then.”

“Yes.”

“High-end, I assume?” Ilya gave him a look. “Right,” Cliff said. “Stupid question.” He scrolled again, already filtering options in his head.

“Julia said Montreal,” Ilya added.

“Good. That narrows it.” Another note. Cliff tapped the stylus once against the screen, then looked up again. “You understand this is going to get complicated,” he said.

“Is already complicated.”

“No,” Cliff said. “It’s going to get more complicated.”

Ilya considered that. “Yes,” he said. “Probably.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “I do not need to be fine with it,” he said. “I just need to do it.”

Cliff held his gaze for a second longer than usual, then nodded. “Okay,” he said again. He went back to the tablet, making adjustments, shifting blocks of time, moving things that had been fixed into places that were… less fixed.

Ilya finished his coffee and set the cup down. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt quieter now. Not calm, just organized. Cliff glanced up once more. “You’re sure about the hotel?”

“Da.”

“No part of you wants to show up with a fully established life there already?”

Ilya shook his head. “No. That would be strange.”

Cliff huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “You’ve picked an interesting line for what counts as strange.”

Ilya stood, reaching for the sink. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Cliff watched him for a second, then went back to work. The schedule shifted again under his hands. This time, Ilya didn’t stop him.

***

The courier arrived mid-afternoon. Not early. Not late. Exactly when it would be least disruptive and impossible to ignore. Ilya signed without asking questions. He didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could be.

The garment bag came first. He carried it into the bedroom and unzipped it just enough to confirm what he already knew. Burgundy. Clean lines. Structured through the shoulders. No tie. The color deepened where the light shifted across it, richer than it had looked under the tailor’s lights. It looked like a decision. He closed it again and hung it apart from everything else.

The ring box was smaller. He opened that one. Gold. Polished. Slightly heavier than necessary. It caught the light immediately, sharp and unapologetic. It matched the chain at his throat without trying to. He slid it onto his finger once, just to feel the weight of it, then took it off again and set it back in the box.

Last was the envelope. Large. Structured. Controlled in the same way everything Julia sent was controlled. Inside were smaller envelopes. He recognized the system now. Details. Invitations. He went to the thicker stack first. 

Invitations. He took one out. The invitation is stark in a way that feels intentional. Heavy, off-white paper with a soft, matte finish. No shine, no gloss. It absorbs light rather than reflecting it, which makes the gold detailing stand out more sharply. A single vertical line runs down the left side in thin gold foil. It’s not centered. It doesn’t try to balance the page. About a third of the way down, the line intersects with a small, perfect circle, also in gold, creating a quiet geometric focal point. Minimal. Controlled. Slightly architectural. Beneath it, the text.

You are invited to witness the marriage of

Ilya Rozanov

May 2

5:00 PM

L’Atrium Céleste

Reception immediately following

No flourishes. No explanation. No attempt to soften it into something romantic. It looked like an event. Like a decision already made. His name sat in the center of it, larger than the rest. Not exaggerated, just unavoidable. He turned the card slightly. The gold line caught the light differently depending on the angle, sharp in one direction, almost invisible in another. It suited him. Of course it did. He set the stack down and pulled his phone from his pocket.

Svetlana first. He didn’t call. He didn’t need to. A message, short and direct, and then a courier arranged through the same service he used for everything else that required discretion.

Invitation enclosed. Friday meeting still stands.

He watched the message send, then put the phone down without waiting for a response.

Cliff was next. Ilya walked back into the main room and dropped the invitation on the table in front of him without comment.

Cliff looked down at it, then up at him. “That’s ominous.”

“Is invitation.”

Cliff picked it up. There was a pause while he read it. Then: “You’re not even pretending this is normal.”

“It is normal,” Ilya said.

“For who?”

“For me.”

Cliff let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Sure.”

He turned the card once, studying it. “This is very… you.”

“Da.”

“And also not you at all.” Ilya didn’t respond to that. Cliff set it down carefully, like it might matter later. “I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Cliff watched him for a second, then nodded once. “Okay.”

Ilya picked up another invitation. Kip. He didn’t hesitate there. He slid the card back into its envelope and crossed to his desk, pulling out a pen. No note. Just the address, written cleanly, and then handed off to an overnight service with the same efficiency he applied to everything else. Kip would understand the lack of explanation. Or he wouldn’t, and Ilya's phone would be ringing just as he landed in Canada tomorrow morning. That had never stopped him before.

New York had been easier. That was the thought that came, uninvited, as he stood by the window a few minutes later. Not easier in any meaningful sense. Just… simpler.Kip had been part of that. He was a photographer. Good. Better than good. Consistent in a way that was rare in that world. He didn’t chase something different every time. He understood what he was looking for before the camera came up. More importantly, he understood when not to push.

They had worked together enough that the rhythm had settled into something predictable. Efficient. Quiet in the way that mattered. After shoots, sometimes, they went out. Not always, just enough. The Kingfisher was close enough to the studio that it didn’t require planning. Dark wood. Low light. A bar that didn’t ask questions and didn’t make a point of noticing who came through the door. They sat at the end, most of the time. Kip would order first. Something uncomplicated. Whiskey. Beer. Nothing that required attention. “You looked tired today,” Kip had said once, not unkindly.

“I was tired.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Ilya had glanced at him. “It is for me.”

Kip had smiled slightly. “Fair.”

There was no pressure in those conversations. No need to perform. Kip didn’t ask for more than what was there. Didn’t try to read into things that weren’t offered. Ilya liked that. He liked the way Kip listened without turning it into something. He liked the way he stayed. It was… steady. Not something Ilya had ever prioritized. Still, he had sent the invitation. That was something.

***

His phone rang. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. Алексей. Ilya let it ring once. Twice. Then answered. “Yes.”

“You think I forget,” Alexei said immediately. No greeting. No attempt at civility.

“I think you call too much.”

“I think you stall.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I stall.” There was a pause on the other end. Brief. Not enough to shift anything.

“Where is the money?”

Ilya leaned one shoulder against the window, looking out at the city without seeing it. “It is set to clear tomorrow.”

There was a beat of silence. “Tomorrow,” Alexei repeated.

“Yes.”

“You said that before.”

“No,” Ilya said calmly. “Before, I said I am arranging it. Now I say it is clearing.”

Another pause. “You think I am stupid.”

“I think you are impatient.”

“I think you lie,” Alexei said again.

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly. “Of course I lie.”

Silence. Then: “Tomorrow,” Alexei said again, more deliberate this time.

“Yes.”

“If it is not there—”

“It will be there,” Ilya cut in, still calm, still steady. “Or you will call me again and say same thing.” The line went quiet. Not disconnected. Just… held. Alexei was considering. Measuring. Trying to decide if there was anything new here or just another version of the same delay.

“Tomorrow,” he said one last time.

“Yes.” The line clicked. Ilya lowered the phone slowly, his reflection faint in the glass. Tomorrow. He set the phone down on the table beside the invitations. The room was quiet again. Organized. Contained. Not for long. Ilya went to pack.

***

The flight left before sunrise.bIlya was awake before the alarm. He didn’t check the time. He didn’t need to. The room still held that dim, suspended quiet that existed only in the hour before the city decided to start again. He got out of bed without lingering, moved through the motions without thinking about them. Shower. Clothes. Passport checked twice, then once more without acknowledging that he was doing it.

Cliff was already up. Of course he was. “You’re early,” Cliff said, not looking up from his phone.

“I am always early.”

“You’re earlier than usual.” Ilya ignored that. They left in silence.

The airport was barely awake. Security moved quickly. No lines. No noise. The kind of efficiency that only existed at that hour. Ilya preferred it. Less waiting. Less time to think. They cleared everything with time to spare. Too much time. “Breakfast,” Cliff said, already turning toward one of the open spots near the gate. Ilya followed. He didn’t argue. They sat across from each other with coffee and something resembling food. Ilya didn’t touch his. The coffee was enough. Cliff watched him over the rim of his cup. “You want to talk about why we’re here two hours early?”

“No.”

“Good,” Cliff said. “Because I don’t want to hear you deny it.” Ilya took a sip of his coffee. Cliff leaned back. “You want to be in Canada before the banks open.”

“Yes.”

“Because of Alexei.”

“Yes.”

Cliff nodded once. “Makes sense.” A pause. “You’re fine,” Cliff added, not quite looking at him.

“I know.” Cliff didn’t push it. They boarded when their row was called. The flight was short enough to feel manageable. Long enough to think if he allowed it. He didn’t.

***

Montreal was cold in a way Boston wasn’t anymore. Sharper, cleaner.

The hotel was already arranged. Of course it was. Cliff handled check-in while Ilya stood slightly to the side, scanning the space without appearing to. High-end. Quiet. Controlled. Staff who didn’t ask questions.

Their room wasn’t ready yet. The conference room was. “Your meeting is set up,” Cliff said, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes.”

Ilya nodded. The room was small, but functional. A table, two chairs, a screen already connected. Svetlana appeared almost immediately. “Ilya.” They spoke in English this time, because Cliff was there.

“Svetlana.” She looked exactly the same as she always did. Composed. Precise. Nothing wasted. “I assume you made it without issue.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we begin.” No preamble. Of course.

“You understand the marriage does not give you citizenship,” she said.

“Yes.”

“It allows you to apply for permanent residency. That is step one.”

“How long?”

“Eight to eighteen months,” she said. “Closer to a year if everything is clean. Yours will not be entirely clean.”

“Because of travel.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes.”

Ilya nodded once. “What happens during that time?”

“You will apply as inland spouse,” she said. “You can remain in Canada while it is processed. Travel becomes… complicated.”

“How?”

“You can leave,” she said. “But reentry is not guaranteed. Especially if there are questions about your status.”

“So I stay.”

“That would be safest.”

Ilya leaned back slightly. “For one year.”

“Approximately.”

He considered that. “My work.”

“Yes,” Svetlana said. “Your work is the problem.”

Cliff shifted slightly beside him but didn’t speak.

“What do I do?” Ilya asked.

“You reduce travel,” she said. “You shift what you can to Canada. Remote work where possible.”

“And if I do not?”

“You delay everything.” Simple. Not helpful. “How many days,” he asked.

“For citizenship,” she said. “You need 1,095 days physically present in Canada within five years.”

Ilya did the math. “Three years.”

“Yes.”

“I can travel during that?”

“Yes,” she said. “But every day you are not in Canada does not count.”

Ilya looked at her. “So I stay.”

“You stay more than you leave,” she corrected.

He exhaled slowly. “This is problem.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

A pause. “What about before residency?” he asked. “Does that time count?”

“Partially,” she said. “Half credit. Up to one year maximum.”

Ilya nodded. “Travel after residency,” he said. “What does it look like?”

“You can travel more freely,” she said. “You are a permanent resident. You can leave and return. But you must still track your days.”

“And passport?”

“You will use your Russian passport until you obtain Canadian citizenship.”

Ilya’s mouth tightened slightly. “If it is still valid.”

Svetlana didn’t react to that. “We will address that separately,” she said. Of course they would. Another pause. “You will need Canadian representation,” she added. “Talent agencies. Work visas tied to your status will change.”

Ilya looked at her. “You have recommendations.”

“Yes.”

“Send them.”

“I will.” Cliff was already making a note. Svetlana leaned forward slightly. “Ilya.” He met her gaze. “This is not temporary,” she said. “You are restructuring your life.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

A beat. She nodded once. “Then we proceed.” The call ended.

***

Check-in was smooth after that. The room was exactly what he expected. Clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view that felt intentional without being distracting. Ilya set his bag down and didn’t unpack. His phone rang.

Kip.

That wasn't unexpected. He answered.

“Hi,” Kip said, already sounding confused. “I got something from you.”

“Yes.”

“A wedding invitation.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. “When did you get engaged?”

“I did not.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Okay,” Kip said slowly. “Is it real?”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Kip exhaled. “Wow.” Ilya waited. “Can I bring Scott?” Kip asked after a second. “Or is this one of those things where I show up alone and pretend I understand what’s happening?”

“You can bring him.”

“Good,” Kip said. “Because we’re boarding a plane right now.”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

“We’ll be in Montreal in about two hours.”

Of course they would. “Okay,” Ilya said.

“Okay,” Kip echoed. The line ended. Ilya looked at his phone for a second, then set it down.

Cliff raised an eyebrow. “That sounded productive.”

“Kip is coming.”

Cliff paused. “That was fast.”

“Da.”

***

Dinner was the kind of place Svetlana would choose.

Not showy. Not empty. Just expensive in a way that assumed you would understand it without needing it explained. Low lighting. Dark wood. Tables set far enough apart that conversations didn’t bleed into each other. Staff that moved quietly and never interrupted.

Ilya liked it immediately. He loosened slightly as they were seated, the edge that had carried him through the morning settling into something more familiar. Not gone. Just… managed.

Kip was already there when they arrived, leaning back in his chair like he had been waiting long enough to decide it didn’t matter. Scott sat beside him, more upright, scanning the room with quiet interest. Kip stood when he saw Ilya. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

They didn’t hug. They didn’t need to. There was a brief pause, a look that passed between them that said enough. Then Kip glanced at Cliff. “You must be Cliff.”

“Yes,” Cliff said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“That’s concerning,” Kip said.

“It is,” Ilya added.

Scott smiled. “I’m Scott.”

“Ilya.”

They shook hands. Scott’s grip was firm, steady. Older than Kip, Ilya thought immediately, though not by much. It showed in smaller ways. The way he watched before speaking. The way he didn’t rush to fill silence.

Ilya sat.

“So,” Kip said, picking up his glass. “You’re getting married.”

“Yes.”

“Still feels fake when I say it.”

“It is not fake.”

“I know,” Kip said. “That’s the problem.”

Ilya took a sip of his drink. “You came anyway.”

“You sent an invitation with no explanation,” Kip said. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Ask questions.”

“I did,” Kip said. “You didn’t answer them.”

“That is also correct.” 

Scott laughed quietly at that.

Cliff was watching the exchange with interest. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Too long,” Kip said.

“Not long enough,” Ilya corrected.

Kip pointed at him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“You are dramatic.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed.

Scott shook his head slightly, amused. “They’ve been like this since before I met him.”

“That is unfortunate for you,” Ilya said.

Scott smiled. “I’ve survived.”

“Barely,” Kip added.

The server arrived. Orders were placed without much discussion. Svetlana handled it efficiently, selecting for the table with minimal input.

When the server left, Kip leaned forward slightly. “Okay. I’m asking again. What is happening?”

Ilya considered him for a second, then shrugged. “I am getting married.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is answer.”

“It’s the headline,” Kip said. “I want the article.”

“No.”

Kip stared at him. Then leaned back again, accepting it in a way that was almost more frustrating than if he had pushed. “Fine. I’ll read it later.”

“You will not.”

“I will absolutely invent it,” Kip said.

“That is acceptable.”

Cliff looked between them. “Is this always how all of your conversations go?”

“Yes,” Kip said.

“No,” Ilya said at the same time.

Cliff blinked. “That’s helpful.”

Scott smiled into his glass.

The food arrived. For a few minutes, the conversation shifted. Work. New York. A shoot Kip had just finished that had gone badly for reasons that had nothing to do with the actual work.

“The lighting was wrong,” Kip said. “They refused to fix it.”

“They always refuse,” Ilya said. “Then they complain after.”

“Exactly.”

Cliff leaned in slightly. “You don’t just tell them it’s wrong.”

“I do,” Ilya said.

“That does not go well,” Kip added.

“It goes fine,” Ilya said.

“It goes loudly,” Kip corrected.

Ilya smiled slightly. “Same thing.”

Scott laughed. “I’ve heard about this.”

“You have not seen it,” Kip said.

“I have imagined it.”

“That's worse.”

Ilya took another sip of his drink, more relaxed now, shoulders no longer held quite as tightly.

Kip glanced at him again, expression shifting just slightly. “You look better.”

“I always look good.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A beat. Then Kip said, quieter, “You okay?”

Ilya met his gaze. “Yes.” It wasn’t a full answer, but it was enough.

Kip nodded once. Scott picked up on the shift but didn’t comment, instead turning to Cliff. “So you manage him?”

Cliff exhaled. “That’s one word for it.”

“What’s the other?”

“Endure.”

“That sounds right,” Kip said.

Ilya leaned back in his chair. “You both exaggerate.”

“You are exhausting,” Cliff said.

“You enjoy it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You do.”

Scott smiled. “He does.”

Cliff looked at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” Kip said.

Ilya glanced at Scott again, taking him in more fully this time. “How old are you?”

Scott blinked. “Excuse me.”

“You are older,” Ilya said.

“Than you,” Scott said carefully, “which is not a high bar.”

“Old,” Ilya said. "Like dinosaur."

Kip choked slightly on his drink. “Jesus.”

Scott laughed. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment.”

“It is not,” Ilya said.

“Good,” Scott said. “I’d hate to misunderstand you this early in our relationship.”

Ilya smiled, sharper this time. “You will misunderstand me anyway.”

“That’s fair.”

Cliff shook his head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“This is normal,” Ilya said.

“This is not normal.”

“It is for me.”

Kip glanced between them. “He says that a lot.”

“He believes it,” Scott said.

“That’s the problem,” Cliff replied.

The conversation drifted again. Easier now. Lighter.

At one point, Kip said something under his breath that made Ilya laugh, quick and unguarded.

Cliff looked at them. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said.

Kip shook his head. “Not explaining that one.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d ruin it,” Kip said.

“I would not ruin it.”

“You absolutely would.”

Ilya leaned back, satisfied. “Then it is mine.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“That is exactly how it works.”

Cliff looked between them again. “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Ilya said.

“No,” Cliff admitted with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I don’t.”

Another round of drinks arrived. The room felt warmer now. Or maybe Ilya did. He glanced at his phone once. No missed calls. Tomorrow. He set the phone face down. For now, this was enough.

Kip was still watching him, quieter now but present. Scott beside him, steady in a way that made sense. Cliff across from him, already thinking about what came next even if he wasn’t saying it out loud. Svetlana at the end of the table, composed, observing, already several steps ahead of all of them. Ilya took another sip of his drink.

“Tomorrow,” Kip said suddenly, like he couldn’t quite let it go.

“Yes.”

“You sure about this?”

Ilya met his gaze. “Da.”

Kip held it for a second, then nodded. “Okay,” he said.

***

Alexei’s name is what wakes him.

The phone is vibrating against the nightstand, insistent, controlled, the sound sharp enough to cut through sleep without warning. Ilya doesn’t move right away. He knows what it is before he looks. He knows what it means. The screen lights the room just enough to make it feel smaller.

Alexei.

The call keeps ringing. Ilya reaches for the phone and stares at it for a second longer than necessary. His chest tightens, fast and immediate, something close to instinct. Not fear exactly, not yet. Just pressure. Familiar. He lets it ring once more. Then he declines it. The silence that follows is worse. He watches the screen and waits. It doesn’t ring again. Not immediately, at least.

That feels intentional.

Ilya exhales slowly and unlocks the phone. His thumb hovers for a second, then moves with more certainty than he feels.

Block contact.

Confirm.

The name disappears. Just like that. He sets the phone back down and sits up. The room is quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that leaves space for everything else to move in if he lets it. He doesn’t. He stands, moves to the bathroom, turns on the light. Cold water. Face. Hands. Something physical to interrupt the loop that wants to start. It works. Enough.

***

The run is harder than yesterday. Not physically. That part is easy. Familiar. Automatic. It’s everything else. The air is colder. Sharper against his lungs. The city is quieter, but not empty. Early movement. People with purpose. He runs faster than he needs to, pushing his pace just enough to make breathing the only thing that matters.

In.

Out.

Again.

He doesn’t think about Alexei.

He doesn’t think about the call.

He doesn’t think about what happens if blocking him was not enough.

He runs until his legs start to feel it, until the tension in his chest shifts into something else. Something he can control. By the time he stops, sweat cooling against his skin, the anxiety has settled into something lower. Not gone. Managed.

That’s enough.

Back at the hotel, Cliff is already up. Of course.

“You look like you murdered something,” Cliff says, not looking up from his laptop.

“I went for a run.”

“Same energy.” Ilya ignores that and reaches for water. Cliff glances up then, studying him for a second. “You okay.”

“Da.” It's clipped. Cliff doesn’t push.

“Svetlana’s ready,” he says instead. “Ten minutes.”

Ilya nods.

***

The paperwork is waiting when he gets back upstairs. Svetlana is already there. Of course she is. She’s seated at the small table by the window, a folder open in front of her, everything arranged with the kind of precision that leaves no room for interpretation. “Ilya.”

“Svetlana.” Cliff closes the door behind them and moves out of the way.

“Sit,” she says. Ilya sits. She slides the first set of documents toward him. “Sponsorship forms. Sign here. Dates must match the certificate exactly.”

He signs. No hesitation. No commentary. Just his name, clean and controlled across each line.

She watches each page as it’s completed, aligning them before moving the next forward. “You will provide the marriage certificate immediately after the ceremony,” she says. “I file within twenty-four hours.”

“Yes.”

“You apply inland,” she continues. “You remain in Canada while it is processed.”

“I know.”

She looks up at him. “Say it again.”

A pause. “I stay in Canada.”

“Good.”

Another set of papers. “Track your days,” she says. “Every day in Canada. Every day out. You need 1,095 days for citizenship.”

“Yes.”

“You travel too much. This will be a problem.”

“I know.” 

She doesn’t argue that. “Reduce travel,” she says instead. “Shift work here where possible. We will discuss agencies next week.”

Cliff makes a note. Ilya signs the last page. Svetlana gathers everything, taps the stack into alignment. “For today, this is sufficient,” she says. She stands. “I will be at the ceremony. You bring me the certificate after.”

“I will.”

She pauses at the door, looks at him once more. “This is not temporary.”

“I know.” A small nod. Then she leaves. The door closes.

Cliff exhales quietly. “That was… efficient.”

“Yes.” Ilya sets the pen down, looking at the stack of signed pages for a second longer than necessary. Then he stands. Nothing left to do.

***

The drive to L’Atrium Céleste is quiet. Ilya watches the city pass by through the window, unfamiliar in the way new places always are. Clean lines. Different scale. Less noise than he’s used to. More space. Montreal feels… intentional. He doesn’t have time to decide if he likes it. The building rises ahead of them, glass and structure catching the light. They take the elevator up. The doors open. 

The space is exactly as described. Glass walls in every direction. The city stretched out below them. Old Montréal sharp and historic, the river cutting through it, the port just beyond. Downtown rising in the opposite direction, reflective, modern. The room itself is restrained. White. Pale tones. Clean lines. Chairs arranged in precise rows, nothing excessive. The aisle defined by space rather than decoration. At the front, a slight elevation. A focal point created without anything obvious.

There are flowers. Minimal. Structured. White and green. Balanced against the light. It feels expensive. It feels controlled. It feels like something designed for someone who values order. 

And something else. Something sharper. Less contained. The way the space opens outward instead of holding inward. The way the glass refuses to create boundaries. Ilya takes that in without naming it. 

Julia is there. Of course she is. She turns as they approach, expression unchanged. “You’re on time,” she says.

“Yes.”

She looks at him for a second, assessing. Then nods. “This way.” She leads them to a smaller room off to the side. Not large. Functional. A place to wait. To prepare. Cliff stays with him. The door closes. 

For a moment, the quiet settles in. Ilya sets the garment bag down and unzips it. The burgundy is darker here. Richer. The light in the room catches it differently than it had at the tailor’s. He changes without hesitation. Shirt first. Jacket. The fabric settles over his shoulders, familiar now. Right.

Cliff watches, leaning against the wall. “You clean up well,” he says.

“I always look good.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Cliff straightens slightly. “You sure?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

Cliff nods once. “Okay.”

Ilya adjusts the jacket once, more out of habit than necessity. The line is clean. The fit exact. He looks at himself in the mirror. Not different. Just… more defined. There’s a knock. The door opens before either of them responds. Light from the main room spills in, brighter than before.

Time.

Ilya doesn’t look at Cliff. He doesn’t look back. He steps forward. And the door opens the rest of the way.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven - Shane

Chapter Notes

I am not one to write notes but I felt really compelled to here. I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, who has commented, who has left kudos, who has subscribed, and who has bookmarked this fic. I haven’t replied to comments here, but I have read them all. I have been overwhelmed with the last bit of my masters degree and you have all been so wonderfully generous with your praise and kindness. You deserve to know that I read every single comment, that your comments make me smile, and that they are cherished. In my world, today is Shane and Ilya’s wedding day, and so I have worked really hard to draft, write, and edit both of their chapters for you to post today. I will probably take a break from writing for a week to reboot my brain for a bit, and do some research on their honeymoon destination before diving into those chapters. I hope the next ~11k words will tide you over. ~iimpish

The doors open before Shane feels ready for them to. Rose steps forward first, not hesitating, and Shane follows because there isn’t another option. The shift from the quiet of the side room into the open space of L’Atrium Céleste is immediate. 

Light. It floods everything. The glass walls catch it and scatter it across the room, across the rows of chairs, across the pale flooring that runs in a straight, deliberate line down the aisle. Beyond it, Montréal stretches out in sharp, impossible detail. Old stone and green trees, the river cutting through it, steady and wide. The sky is clear. Too clear. Nothing to hide behind. Shane keeps his gaze forward.

The room is full. He registers that in pieces. His parents, seated near the front, his mother’s posture composed in a way that reads as controlled rather than relaxed. His father beside her, still, attentive. Hayden and Jackie a few rows back, Jackie’s hand resting lightly over Hayden’s, the kids between them quieter than he’s ever seen them. Rose’s presence beside him is grounding. Close enough that he can feel it without looking.

They walk. The aisle is longer than it had seemed when the room was empty. Every step is measured. Not slow. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Shane keeps his shoulders back, his posture exactly where it should be, the same way he would in a room full of clients, in a courtroom, anywhere that required him to be seen and assessed at the same time. It works.

Mostly.

Halfway down, his attention shifts to the other side of the aisle. He doesn’t mean for it to, but it does.

Strangers.

Well-dressed. Composed. Watching him with the same level of quiet attention as his own guests. There’s no obvious difference between them, no visible line separating one side from the other except familiarity. He doesn’t know any of them. That lands. Not sharply. Just there. This is the other half of the equation. The part he hasn’t seen. The part waiting for him.

He looks forward again. At the front, the officiant stands ready. He’s holding a leather-bound book in both hands, posture relaxed but intentional, expression calm in a way that suggests this is not new to him. There’s something grounding about him. Not overly formal. Not distant. Present. Shane focuses on that. On the endpoint. On the place he needs to reach.

They arrive. Rose steps into position beside him without being told, standing where a best man would, close enough to anchor, far enough not to intrude. Shane takes his place. The space feels different from here. More contained. The view still stretches outward, but the focus narrows. The aisle. The doors. The place where everything that hasn’t happened yet will happen. 

He inhales slowly.

Holds it.

Lets it out.

Nervous.

He registers it clearly now. Not overwhelming. Not paralyzing. Just present in a way that makes everything sharper. His awareness heightened. His thoughts moving faster than usual, then pulling back, settling into something more controlled.

Rose shifts slightly beside him. “You’re fine,” she murmurs, just low enough that no one else hears.

“I know,” he says. It’s not entirely true. It doesn’t need to be. There’s movement at the back of the room. Shane’s attention shifts before he can stop it. The doors open again.

And for a second, everything else falls away.

The man he's going to marry steps inside.

The first thing Shane registers is the color. Burgundy. Deep, rich, catching the light differently with every step. It shouldn’t work as well as it does against the pale, controlled space. It shouldn’t draw the eye the way it does. Then the rest of it.

The line of the suit. The way it fits like it was made for him, not adjusted. The ease in his posture, not careless, but not rigid either. Controlled in a different way. Less contained. More… intentional.

Shane forgets to breathe. It hits him all at once.

Beautiful. The word comes without hesitation, without analysis.

Beautiful. His gaze moves before he can stop it.

Hair first.

Light brown. Just curly enough to catch the light at the edges, soft in a way that feels tangible. Shane has the immediate, irrational thought of wanting to reach out and touch it, to see if it feels the way it looks. His attention drops.

His mouth.

The shape of it is precise. Defined. The top lip curved sharply enough that it draws focus without trying. A deep cupid’s bow that feels almost unfair in how deliberate it looks.

Shane is staring. He knows he is. He doesn’t stop.

There’s a sharp, subtle pressure against his arm.

Rose.

He blinks, the moment breaking just enough for him to pull himself back, to drag his attention somewhere more appropriate. Forward.

Except the man is already moving toward him. Closer now. The details sharpen. The line of his jaw. The angle of his shoulders. The way he holds himself in the space like it belongs to him without needing to claim it. Shane’s breath steadies, just slightly.

Then his soon-to-be husband looks up, and Shane sees his eyes.

Hazel.

Not flat. Not one color. They shift with the light, catching gold and green at the same time, sharp and focused in a way that feels like being seen rather than observed. It’s immediate. Direct. There’s no hesitation in it. Shane holds it without meaning to. Everything else fades again, but differently this time. Not absence. Focus.

He reaches the front and stops. Close enough now that Shane can see the details he missed before. The texture of the fabric. The way the light hits his skin. The small, almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders that mirrors his own.

For a second, neither of them speaks. The space narrows around them without changing at all. The light, the glass, the quiet presence of everyone watching. It all remains exactly the same. It just recedes. 

The officiant steps forward, steadying the moment without interrupting it. “Shane,” he says, voice calm, even. Shane doesn’t look away. “Meet Ilya.”

The name lands differently than anything else has. 

Ilya.

Not abstract. Not theoretical. Not the outline Shane has been working with for weeks. A person. Standing in front of him. Shane feels his breath catch, just slightly, sharp enough that he notices it. 

Ilya. 

He repeats it once in his head, anchoring it. 

The officiant turns. “Ilya, meet Shane.” There’s a brief pause. Not hesitation, just recognition.

“Hi.” Ilya’s voice is lower than Shane expects. Controlled. The accent is there, heavier in person than it had been in the letter, rounding the edges of the word, shifting the cadence just enough to make it feel distinct. Shane had imagined it. This matches. It does something to him he isn’t prepared for.

“Hi,” Shane says. Quieter. Not intentionally, but it comes out that way anyway.

Ilya’s gaze doesn’t shift. It stays on him, direct, assessing in a way that doesn’t feel cold. Just precise.

The officiant gives them both a second, like he understands that this is the first real moment of the entire process. Then he continues. “Shane,” he says, “Ilya’s loved ones would like you to know that he is deeply loyal. That once you are his, he does not let go.” There's a small pause. “That he is intense,” he adds, “in the way he lives, in the way he cares, in the way he commits to the people in his life.”

Shane doesn’t move. He listens. The words settle somewhere between understanding and curiosity. 

“That he has a sense of humor that does not always announce itself,” the officiant continues, the faintest suggestion of something lighter beneath the formality, “but that those closest to him would describe as sharp, deliberate, and occasionally unkind in a way that is meant with affection.”

There’s a flicker in Ilya’s expression. Brief. Controlled.

“And that he is intelligent,” the officiant finishes, “not only in his work, but in the way he observes, adapts, and understands the people around him.” The room is quiet again when he stops. Shane is still looking at Ilya. Still holding his gaze. Trying, without meaning to, to reconcile the man in front of him with the shape of those words.

Loyal.

Intense.

Sharp.

Intelligent.

It fits. Not completely. Not yet. But enough. Enough that Shane feels something settle into place, small and immediate. Ilya doesn’t look away. Not even once. 

The officiant turns, the shift small but deliberate. “Ilya,” he says, voice steady, measured in the same way as before, “Shane’s friends and family would like you to know…” There’s a brief pause, not for effect, just long enough for the attention to settle. “…that he is quick-witted. Not loud about it, not always immediate, but precise. He listens first, and when he speaks, it tends to land exactly where it should.”

Shane feels that more than he expects to.

The officiant continues. “That he is deeply committed to his work, to his responsibilities, and to the people he chooses. Once he decides something matters, he does not approach it halfway.”

A small shift in Shane’s posture. Subtle. Unintentional.

“That he is disciplined,” the officiant adds, “in a way that shapes how he moves through the world. Consistent. Reliable. He does not leave things unfinished, and he does not abandon what he has agreed to carry.”

The words are steady. Clear. Not embellished.

“And that he is kind,” he finishes, “though not always in ways that are immediately obvious. His kindness is deliberate. Thoughtful. Often quiet, but constant to those who know him well.”

The room settles again when he stops. Ilya is still looking at him. Shane doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat of silence after the officiant finishes. It holds just long enough to feel complete. Then—

“So your family wants me to know you are boring?” Ilya’s voice is even. No smile. No shift in expression that suggests he’s joking.

Shane blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“What?” he says, because it’s the only word that arrives in time.

“I am asking,” Ilya continues, like this is a reasonable follow-up. “Wit. Discipline. Commitment. Kindness.” He tilts his head slightly. “These are… boring qualities.”

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That doesn’t—no, that’s not—”

A quiet, sharp “Ilya,” comes from behind him, low and warning.

There’s a ripple from the seats. Not loud. Not disruptive. Just enough that Shane can hear it. A few stifled laughs. Someone trying not to react at all. Ilya doesn’t turn around immediately.

“What?” he says, still looking at Shane. “Is true, no? These are words people use when they want to say something nice without saying something interesting.”

Shane stares at him. This is not how this was supposed to go. “I’m not boring,” he says finally, more certain than he feels.

Ilya studies him. Then, just slightly, the corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. “I did not say it was bad,” he says. “Some people like boring.” The word lands differently this time. Closer to teasing. Still dangerous. “Котёнок.” The word drops between them like it belongs there.

Shane’s brain stalls completely for a second. He knows exactly what the word means. He hears the tone just as clearly. Soft. Familiar. Entirely out of place in the middle of this. Heat rises at the back of his neck before he can stop it. This is… not controlled. Not structured. Not anything he prepared for.

He becomes aware, abruptly, of the officiant. Of the room. Of the fact that this is happening in front of everyone.

The officiant clears his throat lightly. Not loudly. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to shift it. “Ilya,” he says, calm, steady, “I believe the intention was to give you context, not classification.” A pause. The faintest hint of something like humor under the formality. “Though I suspect you understood that.”

Ilya looks at him, then back at Shane. “Yes,” he says.

The tension shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.

The officiant nods once, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Then perhaps we continue.” He looks between them.

Shane inhales. Slow. Controlled. This is still happening. He can do this. Beside him, Rose shifts just enough that her elbow brushes his arm. Grounding. Intentional. 

Across from him, Ilya’s expression settles again into something more neutral. Still watchful. Still sharp. But contained. The room quiets. Whatever had started to unravel pulls itself back into place.

“Shall we proceed to the vows?” the officiant says.

“Yes,” Shane says, before he can think too much about it.

Ilya nods once. “Da.”

The officiant nods once, giving them both a second that feels longer than it is. “Shane,” he says, “you may begin.”

Shane inhales. It’s measured. Controlled. The same way he has done everything leading up to this moment. He reaches for the paper in his hand, but he doesn’t look at it immediately. His eyes stay on Ilya. Grounding.

“Ilya,” he starts. His voice is steady. Not loud. It carries anyway. “I don’t know you the way most people would expect me to, standing here.” There’s a slight shift in the room. Not discomfort. Recognition. “That’s the truth of this,” he continues. “And I don’t want to pretend otherwise.” He glances down briefly, more out of habit than necessity, then back up again. “But I chose to be here. I chose this because I believe that commitment can come before certainty. That a decision can be made with intention, even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.”

Ilya doesn’t move. He listens the same way he looks at everything. Direct. Focused. Not distracted by anything else in the room.

“I’m not offering you something temporary,” Shane says. “Or something conditional. I will show up. I will do the work this requires. Even when it’s difficult. Even when it would be easier not to.” There’s a slight tightening in his jaw, almost imperceptible. “I want to build something with you,” he says. “Not perfectly. Not all at once. But deliberately.” Rose shifts beside him, subtle, grounding. Shane doesn’t look at her. “I will listen, even when I don’t immediately understand. I will be honest, even when it would be more comfortable not to be. And I will respect you as a partner, in everything that follows this.” A pause. “I don’t know yet what this will become,” he finishes. “But I am here to find out.” He exhales, the smallest release of tension.

The words sit in the space between them. The officiant nods once, then turns. “Ilya?”

Ilya doesn’t reach for anything. No paper. No notes. He watches Shane for a second longer before he speaks. “Shane.” His voice is lower than before. Not quieter. Just closer. “This is not how people usually do this.” A faint ripple moves through the room again. Softer this time. “I know that,” he says. “You know that.” He shifts his weight slightly, not restless. Just adjusting into the moment. “I did not come here because I believe in something easy,” he continues. “I came because when I decide something, I follow through.” The accent is stronger now, more pronounced in the shape of the words. Not careful. Not softened. “I am not always simple to understand,” he says. “I am not always patient. I do not promise to be.” There’s the faintest hint of something sharper there. Honest. Unfiltered. “But I am loyal.” The word is clear. Certain. “If you are mine,” he adds, without hesitation, “I stay.” The phrasing is direct enough that it shifts something in the room. Not uncomfortable, just real. “I do not leave when things become complicated. I do not disappear when something is difficult.”

Shane doesn’t look away.

“I will be honest with you,” Ilya says. “Even when it is not comfortable. I will protect what we build, even before I fully understand it. And I will meet you where you are, not where I expect you to be.” A small pause. “I do not know you yet,” he says. The words are softer. Not less certain. Just less guarded. “But I am interested in knowing you. And I am here.” He doesn’t add anything to it. He doesn’t need to. The silence that follows is different from before, fuller.

The officiant steps forward again, not breaking it, just guiding it. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

The officiant lets the silence settle for a moment longer. Then he shifts, just slightly. “The rings.”

Rose is already moving. Shane doesn’t look at her, but he’s aware of it. The quiet step forward, the small velvet box placed into his hand with the kind of precision that matches everything else she’s done today.

Across from him, Cliff does the same for Ilya.

The moment narrows again. Just the two of them. Shane opens the box.

The ring catches the light immediately. Gold. Polished. Slightly more visible than what Shane would have chosen for himself. It looks like Ilya. Intentional. Unapologetic. Shane takes it out carefully. It feels heavier than it should.

The officiant’s voice is steady, grounding. “Shane, please place the ring on Ilya’s finger.”

Shane steps closer. Not much. Just enough. Up close, everything sharpens again. The details he noticed before. The texture of the fabric. The line of Ilya’s jaw. The way his eyes hold steady, not shifting away. Ilya extends his hand. No hesitation. His fingers are long, steady. There’s a faint warmth there when Shane’s hand brushes against his, unexpected and immediate. Shane pauses for half a second. Then slides the ring into place. It fits. Of course it does. The gold settles against Ilya’s skin like it belongs there. Shane’s hand lingers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he lets go. He steps back.

The officiant turns. “Ilya?”

Cliff passes the second box without comment. Ilya doesn’t open it right away. He looks at Shane first. Just for a second. Then he opens the box. Inside, the ring is different. Simpler. More restrained. A clean band. Understated in a way that feels deliberate, like a choice made with intention rather than absence. Ilya takes it out. There’s no hesitation in his movement, but there’s a shift in his expression. Subtle. Focused in a way that feels quieter.

“Please place the ring on Shane’s finger,” the officiant says.

Ilya steps forward. Close enough now that Shane can feel the proximity without thinking about it. The faint warmth of him. The steadiness. Shane extends his hand. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Ilya takes it. His grip is firm. Not tight. Controlled. His thumb presses lightly at the base of Shane’s finger as he slides the ring into place. The metal is cool at first. Then not. It settles against his skin, light in a way that feels almost deceptive compared to the weight of everything it represents. Ilya’s hand doesn’t drop immediately. It stays there, just long enough to register. Then he lets go. They step back into place. The rings sit there. New. Unfamiliar. Certain. Neither of them looks down. Not yet. 

The officiant gives a small nod, like something essential has just been completed. 

The officiant steps forward again, the shift subtle but enough to draw the room back into focus. He looks at both of them, something measured and certain in his expression. “Shane. Ilya.” A pause. “You have come here today and made a commitment to one another. Not out of certainty, but out of intention. Not because everything is known, but because you are willing to find out.” His voice carries easily through the space, steady against the quiet. “You have spoken your vows, and you have exchanged rings as a symbol of what you are choosing to build together.” Another pause. Then: “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you married.”

Married.

It settles into the space between them in a way that feels heavier than anything that came before it. There’s a brief shift in the room. Movement. Anticipation. The officiant’s gaze flickers between them, the faintest suggestion of expectation. 

Shane feels it immediately. The pause, the part that comes next.

He becomes aware of everything at once. The people watching, the light, the closeness of Ilya standing directly in front of him. The fact that there is something they are supposed to do. He doesn’t move. Not because he doesn’t understand. Because he does. He just… doesn’t know how. 

Across from him, Ilya hasn’t moved either. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Not uncertainty. Not quite. Just calculation. Recognition of the same expectation, the same pause stretching just a little too long. For a second, neither of them fills it. Shane’s gaze drops, just briefly, then returns to Ilya’s face. 

Ilya exhales, almost imperceptibly. Then he steps forward. It’s not dramatic. Not a performance. Just a small shift in distance. He lifts his hand, light against Shane’s arm, grounding in a way that feels deliberate rather than instinctive. Shane stills and Ilya leans in. Close enough that Shane can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of fabric, the subtle shift of air between them. 

Then— soft. The kiss lands against Shane’s cheek. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… careful. Intentional. It lasts barely a second. Then Ilya pulls back. The space between them returns, but it feels different now. Changed in a way that’s hard to define. There’s a beat. Then the room reacts. Applause, soft at first, then building, filling the glass-walled space and spilling outward into the city beyond it. Shane stands there for a second longer than necessary, his hand still where it had been, the place where Ilya touched him lingering in a way that feels disproportionate. He looks at him. Ilya’s expression has settled again, composed, controlled. But there’s something there. Small. Not hidden. Shane exhales, finally. 

***

Julia appears beside them before the applause fully settles. It isn’t abrupt. It feels like part of the design. “This way,” she says. No congratulations. No commentary. Just direction.

Shane is aware of Rose at his side for a moment longer, of Hayden’s grin somewhere behind him, of his mother’s expression that he can’t quite read from this distance. Then the room shifts again, and it’s just movement. Just following. Ilya is beside him. Close enough now that Shane can feel it without looking. The presence. The awareness. They are guided through a side door, away from the light and the view and the quiet weight of everyone watching.

The room they enter is smaller. Intentional. Soft chairs arranged across from each other, angled just enough that they’re meant to face, not sit side by side. A low table between them. Glass bottles. Small plates. Food that doesn’t require attention.

Coke.

Ginger ale.

Of course.

Julia gestures once. “You have time.” That’s all she says, then she leaves. The door closes behind her. And for the first time since the morning started, it is just the two of them.

Shane doesn’t sit immediately. Neither does Ilya. They stand there for a second longer than necessary, the silence settling in around them in a way that feels different from the silence outside. Not observed. Not structured. Unsupervised. Shane exhales slowly. Then gestures, small, controlled. “You should—”

“You should,” Ilya says at the same time.

They both stop. There’s the faintest shift in Ilya’s expression. Not quite a smile. Something close.

“You first,” Ilya says.

Shane nods once, then sits. Ilya follows a second later, settling into the chair across from him with the same ease he had in the ceremony. Not careless, just unforced. There’s a moment where neither of them reaches for anything.

The table sits between them. Defined. 

Shane breaks first. He reaches for the ginger ale, pours it into the glass provided, the movement steady even if his thoughts aren’t entirely aligned with it yet. Ilya watches him. Not intrusive. Just present. Then he reaches for the Coke, opens it without looking away, pours. The sound of it is louder than it should be. Shane sets the bottle down.

“So,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s just a beginning.

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “So.”

A pause.

Shane considers where to start. There is no obvious place. “I wasn’t expecting you to call me boring,” he says finally. It’s not what he planned to say. It’s what comes out.

Ilya’s mouth curves, just slightly. “You are not boring,” he says.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I said some people like boring,” Ilya adds. “That is different.”

Shane exhales, something close to a laugh. “You’re not helping.”

“I am not trying to help,” Ilya says. That lands exactly how it should.

Shane nods once. “Right.” Another pause. Less awkward now. More… searching.

Ilya leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the side, relaxed in a way that feels intentional. “You are exactly how I expected,” he says.

Shane looks at him. “That’s either good or very concerning.”

“It is both,” Ilya says.

Shane considers that. “How did you expect me?”

“Controlled,” Ilya says. “Structured. You think before you speak.” Shane doesn’t deny it. “And,” Ilya adds, eyes shifting slightly, more focused now, “you are more… open than I thought you would be.”

Shane blinks. “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“It is,” Ilya says. There’s no hesitation in it.

Shane studies him for a second. “And you…”

“Yes?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Shane repeats. “I thought you would be more...” He stops. Ilya watches him, waiting. “Careful,” Shane finishes. A small shift.

“I am careful,” Ilya says.

“Not in the way I meant.”

“That is because you do not know me yet,” Ilya replies.

That’s fair. Shane nods. “I don’t,” he says. A pause. It sits there. Not uncomfortable. Just true.

Ilya reaches for his glass, takes a sip, sets it down again. “You understand what I told you,” he says. It’s not phrased as a question.

Shane does anyway. “About your situation?”

“Yes.”

“I understand what you chose to share,” Shane says carefully.

Ilya watches him. Evaluating. “And you still said yes,” Ilya says.

“Yes.” Another pause.

“Why?”

Shane exhales slowly. That’s a more complicated answer than he can give in one sentence. “I wanted something… stable,” he says. “Predictable in a way that dating isn’t.”

Ilya’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a shift in attention. Sharper now. “That is interesting,” he says.

“Why?”

“You chose something very unpredictable to get that,” Ilya says.

Shane almost smiles. “I’m aware.” A beat. “But it’s structured,” Shane adds. “There’s a framework. Expectations. That matters to me.”

Ilya nods slowly. “Yes.” He understands that.

“And you?” Shane says. “You said it wasn’t your only reason.”

“It is not,” Ilya says. He doesn’t elaborate immediately. Shane doesn’t push. After a second, Ilya continues. “I like control,” he says. “In my work, I have very little of it. This…” he gestures slightly between them, “is different.”

Shane absorbs that. “Yes,” he says. “It is.”

They sit with that for a moment. The air shifts again. Less formal. Less careful. More… personal.

Ilya reaches for something on the table, a small piece of food, more to occupy his hands than anything else. “You looked at me like you had never seen anything like me before,” he says.

Shane stills. That is not what he expected to be called on. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious,” he says.

“It was,” Ilya says. A pause. 

Shane considers denying it. Doesn’t. “I wasn’t prepared,” he says instead.

“For what?”

Shane hesitates, just briefly. Then: “You.”

Ilya watches him. Something shifts again. Smaller this time. Less defined. “Good,” he says.

Shane blinks. “Good?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I was not prepared for you either,” Ilya says.

Shane leans back slightly in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing in a way he hadn’t fully registered before. “This is…” he starts.

“Strange,” Ilya finishes.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Ilya repeats.

They both almost smile. Almost. Another pause. Less empty now. More full.

Shane glances at the table, then back at Ilya.

“Do you always—” he starts, then stops himself, adjusting. “Use nicknames like that.”

Ilya’s expression shifts. Subtle. Controlled. But there. “Only when they look like they do not know what to do with themselves,” he says.

Shane exhales, something closer to a real laugh this time. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It is not meant to be,” Ilya replies. A beat. “But,” he adds, quieter, “it is not… insult.”

Shane nods once. “I figured.” Ilya watches him for a second longer.

“You are more aware than you pretend,” he says.

Shane doesn’t react to that immediately. “About some things,” he says.

Ilya considers that. He doesn’t push it., not yet. The space between them settles again. Not silent, just… shifting.

They’re past the first layer now. The part where everything is surface and reaction. This is something else. Not comfortable yet. But not unfamiliar either. Shane studies him. Not the way he had before. Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Intentional.

“You said you stay,” he says.

Ilya nods once. “Yes.” No hesitation. No adjustment. Just fact.

Shane absorbs that. “Good,” he says. It’s simple. Direct.

Ilya’s gaze sharpens slightly. “Good?” 

“Yes.”

A pause. Not empty. Measured. Then: “Because I don’t leave either,” Shane says. Quieter than before. Less formal than his vows. More precise. 

It lands. lya holds his gaze. Something shifts again. Smaller this time. Not visible to anyone else. Then he nods. “Good,” he says again.

This time, it’s not an echo. It’s agreement. The room stays quiet around them. Not unresolved. Just… not finished. But enough. For now.

They sit with that for a moment. Not searching for the next thing to say. Just letting it exist.

Ilya reaches for his glass again, more out of habit than anything else. The Coke has gone slightly flat. He doesn’t seem to mind. He takes a sip anyway, eyes still on Shane over the rim. “You are very calm,” he says.

Shane considers that. “I’m not,” he replies.

Ilya’s mouth curves, just slightly. “No?”

“No,” Shane says. “I just… manage it well.”

That earns something closer to a real reaction. “I see that,” Ilya says. A beat. “You do not look like someone who panics.”

Shane exhales, faintly amused. “That’s because I don’t let people see it.”

Ilya leans back a fraction more in his chair, settling into it. “And now?”

“Now,” Shane says, “I’m choosing not to.”

Ilya watches him. Evaluating again, but differently now. “Interesting,” he says.

Shane lifts his glass, takes a sip, sets it back down with the same careful precision as before. “What about you?” he asks. “You don’t seem particularly—” he searches for the right word, “—concerned.”

Ilya tilts his head. “I am concerned.”

“You don’t look it.”

“That is because it is not useful,” Ilya says.

Shane nods slowly. “That’s one way to approach it.”

“It is effective,” Ilya replies. Another pause. This one easier. The edges of it less sharp.

Shane glances briefly toward the door, then back. “Do you know what happens next?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “We go back. We pretend this is normal. There is reception.”

Shane huffs out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Right.”

“And then,” Ilya continues, “we leave.”

“For the honeymoon.”

“Yes.”

There’s a slight shift in the air again. Different. Less about logistics. More about implication.

Shane doesn’t look away. “You’re very direct.”

“Yes.” Ilya studies him for a second. “You prefer indirect.”

“Not exactly,” Shane says. “I prefer… measured.”

“That sounds like indirect,” Ilya replies.

Shane almost smiles. “Sometimes.”

Ilya lets that sit. Then, quieter, “I can be measured.”

Shane looks at him. “I don’t think you should try to be something you’re not,” he says.

Ilya’s expression stills. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to,” Shane replies. That lands. Clean.

Ilya holds his gaze for a second longer, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settles again. “Good,” he says.

There’s that word again. But it feels different each time. Less like agreement. More like alignment.

A knock at the door. Soft. Precise. Both of them look toward it. The moment shifts again, the space closing slightly around what they’ve just started. 

Ilya stands first. Shane follows a second later.

There’s a brief pause as they both register the movement, the proximity again, the fact that this is no longer theoretical in any sense. Ilya reaches for the door. Then stops. Just for a second. He looks back at Shane. Not questioning. Not uncertain. Just checking. Shane meets his gaze. “Ready,” he says.

It comes easier this time. Ilya nods once. 

Then opens the door, and they step back into everything waiting for them.

Chapter End Notes

I’m realizing that there’s been a shift in tense in the last couple of chapters. I will probably go back and edit the first few, but not any time soon. Sorry if that threw anyone off.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight - Ilya

Chapter Notes

They step out of the side room together. The door closes behind them, soft but final, and the noise of the reception comes back all at once. Conversation, glassware, movement. It’s different from before. Looser. Less contained.

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds the small of Shane’s back immediately, like it had been there the entire time. It’s instinct, not calculated. He feels the reaction.

Shane stills for a second under his hand. Just a fraction. Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just noticing.

Ilya keeps his hand there. He doesn’t move. A breath, then another.

Shane exhales, quiet, and something shifts. The tension loosens instead of holding. His shoulders drop just slightly, his posture settling into something more natural. Ilya feels it. He doesn’t comment. He just keeps his hand where it is. They move forward together.

The room has changed. The ceremony rows have softened into clusters. People standing now, moving between tables, drinks in hand. The same clean palette remains, white and pale tones, low arrangements that don’t interrupt the space. The glass walls still dominate everything, the city beyond them bright and steady. But now there’s sound. Attention. It shifts toward them as they step out. Ilya registers it without thinking about it. He’s used to being watched. This is not new. What is new is not being alone in it. His hand stays at Shane’s back. A point of contact. He doesn’t want to lose it “Come,” he says quietly.

Shane nods. They move toward his side first.

***

Kip steps up to them, smile warm as he introduces himself. “Hi,” he says, already smiling. “I’m Kip.”

“Shane.” Kip glances between them, taking in the details without being obvious about it. “This is… still a lot to process.”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“I’m not asking questions,” Kip adds quickly.

“You were going to.”

“I was,” Kip admits.

Scott steps forward beside him. “Scott,” he says.

“Shane.” They shake.

There’s a pause, then Scott says, “You watch hockey.”

Shane looks up, a little surprised. “Yeah.”

Scott nods, like that confirms something. 

“How?”

“Rose told me,” Scott says, “while you two were in there chatting.”

Shane lets out a small breath, almost a laugh.

They both shift, just slightly, the conversation settling into something easier.

“What team?” Shane asks.

Scott smiles. “Depends how much you want to argue.”

Shane lets out a small breath. “That’s not usually how that conversation goes.”

“It works.” And that’s it. 

They shift into something else. Hockey. Ilya hears it happen. Teams, positions, something about defensive structure. Shane explaining something with quiet precision, Scott nodding along, engaged. They are bonding. 

Ilya looks at Kip.

Kip looks back. “I told you,” Kip says.

“You did not tell me this,” Ilya replies.

Kip smiles. This is worse than expected.

***

Cliff is still watching them when they approach. Not in a subtle way. Measured. Evaluating. Of course.

“You survived,” Cliff says.

“Da.”

Cliff’s gaze drops briefly to Ilya’s hand at Shane’s back, then back up again. He doesn’t comment on it. Cliff nods once, then shifts his attention fully to Shane. “So.” So. Shane doesn’t seem thrown by it. “Cliff,” he says.

They shake hands. Firm. Brief. Neither of them overdoing it.

Cliff doesn’t let go of the moment right away. He studies Shane for a second longer than most people would, like he’s trying to place him into a system that already exists in his head. “You’re very calm,” Cliff says.

“I try to be.”

“That’s a skill,” Cliff replies. “Especially here.”

“I’ve had practice.”

Cliff glances once at Ilya, then back to Shane. “I imagine you have.”

A pause. Cliff shifts his weight slightly, something in his posture loosening as he settles into the conversation. “What do you do?”

“Corporate law,” Shane says.

Cliff exhales, a quiet sound of recognition. “That explains it.”

“Does it?”

“Yes,” Cliff says. “You look like someone who organizes things for a living.”

Shane’s mouth curves just slightly. “That’s accurate.”

Cliff nods once, approving. “Systems.”

“Yes.”

“Digital, physical, or both?”

“Both,” Shane says without hesitation. “Digital for access, physical for redundancy.”

Cliff’s expression changes. Not dramatically. But enough.

“Good,” he says.

Ilya looks between them. This is already going in a direction he does not like.

Cliff continues, more engaged now. “You categorize by client or by matter?”

“Matter first,” Shane says. “Then client within that.”

Cliff nods again, sharper this time. “Same.”

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. This is happening.

“You maintain separate timelines?” Cliff asks. “Or integrate?”

“Separate,” Shane says. “Integrated timelines get messy.”

“Yes,” Cliff says immediately. “Exactly.” A beat. “You color code?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course.”

Ilya closes his eyes briefly. This is worse than the hockey conversation. They are enjoying this.

Cliff glances at him, catching the expression. “What?”

“You are bonding,” Ilya says.

“Yes,” Cliff replies.

“This is not good.”

Cliff looks back at Shane. “He hates this.”

“I can see that,” Shane says, voice even but with something quieter underneath it.

“Why?” Cliff asks him.

“I think he prefers chaos,” Shane says.

“I do not prefer chaos,” Ilya says.

“You create it,” Cliff replies.

“That is different.”

Shane’s mouth curves again, just slightly. “That feels accurate.”

Cliff nods, like that confirms something. “It is.” Another pause. Then Cliff says, “You plan ahead.”

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“It depends,” Shane says. “Work, weeks. Personal, longer if necessary.”

Cliff considers that. “You accounted for this.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Structure,” Shane says simply.

Cliff nods again. Approving. “Good,” he says.

Ilya looks at both of them. “You are the same,” he says.

“No,” Cliff replies. “We’re compatible.”

“That is worse.”

Cliff smiles slightly. Shane doesn’t argue it. Which is, somehow, the most concerning part. Ilya shifts his hand slightly at Shane’s back, not removing it, just… reminding himself it’s there. Grounding. This is fine. Probably. He looks at Cliff again. “You are done now.”

“No,” Cliff says.

“Yes,” Ilya replies.

Cliff glances back at Shane. “We’ll compare systems later.”

“Of course,” Shane says. Ilya exhales. This is not over.

***

Svetlana approaches without waiting. “Ilya,” she says.

“Svetlana.”

Her attention shifts immediately to Shane. “Shane,” she says, extending her hand. “Svetlana.”

Shane takes it. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You as well,” she replies. Then, without hesitation, “I apologize for discussing business during your reception.”

Shane doesn’t even pause. “That’s fine.”

“I will require a few minutes of your time,” she continues. “To finalize the sponsorship forms.”

“Yes,” Shane says.

“No,” Ilya says. They both look at him. Ilya exhales. “Later.”

Svetlana ignores him. “Soon,” she clarifies to Shane.

“Of course.” Ilya looks away. This is happening.

***

“Your turn,” Shane says quietly. Ilya nods. They cross the room. His hand stays at Shane’s back.

David and Yuna are first.

“Mr. Hollander,” Ilya says. “Mrs. Hollander.”

“No,” Yuna says immediately. “Yuna.”

David nods. “David.”

Ilya hesitates. Then: “Yuna. David.” It feels unfamiliar. Less structured. He accepts it. “It is good to meet you,” he says.

“And you,” Yuna replies, her gaze steady. Measuring. Not unkind. David watches him the same way. Ilya holds it. After a moment, David nods once. Enough.

***

Hayden is next. He does not look impressed.

“This is Ilya,” Shane says.

“I know,” Hayden replies. Direct. Ilya considers him.

“You are Hayden.”

“Yes.” A beat. “You called him boring,” Hayden says. 

There it is. “Yes,” Ilya says.

Shane exhales beside him. Hayden’s expression tightens.

“I was wrong,” Ilya adds. That stops him. Hayden blinks. “He is not boring.”

A pause. Hayden studies him. Then huffs out a breath. “Okay.” Not approval. But movement.

***

Jackie is easier. “Hi,” she says, smiling.

“Hi.” She’s warm. Open. Ilya responds to it without thinking. “You are Jackie.”

“I am.”

“You are very nice.”

She laughs. “Thank you.”

He leans slightly closer. “He talks about you.”

Jackie glances at Shane. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Yes.” She smiles wider.

Rose watches this happen, expression unreadable. Then: “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She doesn’t offer her hand. She just looks at him. Direct. “You’re exactly what I expected,” she says.

“Da?”

“And not at all.”

“Yes.”

A pause. She nods. Satisfied.

***

The children approach him as a group. No hesitation.

“Are you really married now?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know each other before?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That is complicated.”

They ignore that. “Do you play hockey?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have other skills.”

“What skills?”

He looks at Shane. Shane is watching this with clear amusement. Unhelpful.

“I work,” Ilya says.

“That’s boring,” one of them says immediately. Hayden makes a noise somewhere behind them. 

Ilya narrows his eyes slightly. “I am not boring.” 

They consider that. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They accept it. Just like that. Ilya exhales. Children are confusing. He looks at Shane again. Shane is smiling now, openly.

“This is funny for you,” Ilya says quietly.

“Yes.”

“I am glad you are entertained.”

“I am.”

Ilya shakes his head slightly. But he doesn’t move his hand. It stays at the small of Shane’s back. Steady. He needs it there.

***

The first notes come in soft. Familiar. “You’ve Got a Friend” settles over the room like something steadier than everything else that’s happened today. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just warm.

Ilya doesn’t think about it. He turns toward Shane and steps closer, his hand sliding naturally back to the small of his back like it belongs there now. Shane doesn’t tense this time. He leans in, just slightly, like he’s already learned the shape of it. That does something to Ilya he doesn’t examine too closely. They start to move.

Not complicated. Just enough to follow the rhythm. Close enough that Ilya can feel the heat of him, the subtle shift of his breathing, the way he adjusts without thinking to match him. Shane is steady, predictable in a way that doesn’t feel boring at all. Ilya looks at him. Really looks this time. 

Freckles.

He hadn’t noticed them fully before. Not like this. Across the bridge of his nose, faint against his skin, more visible under the warm light of the room. Not uniform. Not perfect. Just… there. Real.

His eyes are brown. Warm brown. Not flat. Not dull. There’s depth to them, something softer than the rest of him, something that doesn’t match the control in his posture or the precision in the way he moves.

Ilya is staring again. He doesn’t stop.

Shane notices. Of course he does. “You’re staring,” Shane says quietly.

“Da.” There’s no denial in it.

Shane’s mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “You should probably stop.”

“No.”

Shane exhales, something like a quiet laugh. They turn slowly with the music. Ilya’s hand stays exactly where it is. He needs it there.

After a moment, Shane says, “We should probably learn things about each other.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “That seems useful.”

Shane nods once, like he’s already thought this through. “Twenty questions.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Twenty?”

“Each.”

“That is many questions.”

“We don’t have to ask them all now,” Shane says. “We can… continue later.”

“Honeymoon,” Ilya says.

“Yes.”

Ilya considers that. “Okay,” he says. “You start.”

Shane nods. “What do you do for a living?”

Simple. Direct. “I am model,” Ilya says.

Shane’s eyes flicker slightly, taking that in. “That makes sense.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of modeling?”

“High fashion. Campaigns. Runway.” A small pause. “Travel a lot.”

“I gathered that.”

Ilya watches him. “You don’t seem impressed.”

“I’m processing.”

“Good,” Ilya says. They shift again, turning slowly through the space. “My turn,” Ilya says. Shane nods. “Tell me story about you in college.”

Shane blinks. “That’s broad.”

“Pick one.”

A pause. Then Shane says, “That’s how I met Rose.”

Ilya’s attention sharpens. “Okay.”

Shane takes a breath, not breaking the rhythm of their movement. “I was walking back from the library,” he says. “Late. Probably around midnight.”

***

It’s quiet. Campus at night, the kind of still that makes every sound sharper. Shane has his head down, bag over his shoulder, already thinking about the next day. He doesn’t notice her until she’s right in front of him.

“Sweetie!”

The word lands wrong. There's no one in his life to call him 'sweetie'. He looks up.

Rose.

He doesn’t know her yet, not really. He’s seen her. In classes. Around. She’s… noticeable. Confident in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

Now she’s close. Too close. Her hand slips into his, fingers tightening just enough to make it look real. “Where have you been?” she says, louder than necessary.

Shane blinks.

There’s a man behind her. Watching. Something in the situation clicks.

“Oh,” Shane says, catching on. “Sorry. Library ran late.”

Rose squeezes his hand. “Of course it did,” she says, turning slightly so she’s closer to him, angled away from the other man. The man hesitates. Looks between them. Then scoffs and walks off. Rose doesn’t move right away. Neither does Shane. After a second, she lets go of his hand. “Thanks,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

A pause. “You’re in my contracts class,” she adds.

“Yes.”

“I’m Rose.”

“Shane.”

She smiles. “Good. Now we’re not strangers.”

***

“She’s been in my life ever since,” Shane finishes.

Ilya studies him.

“You did not question why stranger called you ‘sweetie?’”

“I did,” Shane says. “Just not out loud.”

“Smart.”

“Yes.”

Ilya nods once.

“My turn,” Shane says.

“Yes.”

“How did you meet your friends?”

Ilya glances toward Cliff, then back at Shane.

“Cliff first,” he says. “I was starting modeling. Not… big yet. Needed help.”

“With what?”

“Everything,” Ilya says. “Schedule. Emails. Travel. I am not organized.”

Shane glances at him. “No,” he says.

“Do not start,” Ilya replies.

Shane’s mouth curves again.

“I offered him job,” Ilya continues. “He said yes. Then he stayed.” Cliff raises his glass from across the room. Ilya ignores him. “Kip,” he says, “was photographer. We worked together. He did not annoy me.”

“That’s rare.”

“Yes.”

“Scott.”

“Kip’s husband.”

“Right.” A pause. “My turn,” Ilya says. Shane nods. “You have siblings?”

Shane shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not how that works.”

Ilya frowns slightly. “Then who is Hayden?”

Shane’s expression softens just slightly. “Hayden is… basically my brother.”

“Okay.” That is enough. They turn again. The song shifts into the next verse. “You’ve Got a Friend” wraps around them, steady, grounding.

Shane’s voice is quieter now when he speaks. “Why Canada?”

Ilya watches him. “I did not choose Canada,” he says. Shane pauses. “I chose U.S.,” Ilya continues. “Fashion industry is stronger there.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yes.” A beat. “You are in Canada,” Ilya adds.

Shane stills slightly. Just for a second. Then: “Oh.” 

Something about that lands deeper than Ilya expected. He doesn’t push it. “My turn,” Ilya says. Shane nods. “Favorite hockey team? You did not tell Scott.”

Shane exhales softly, like he’s been waiting for that one. “Ottawa,” he says first. “I grew up there.”

“Loyal,” Ilya says. “They are terrible.”

“Yes.” A pause. “Also Montréal,” Shane adds. “My mom’s favorite team.”

Ilya nods. “Also loyal.”

“Yes.” They move again. Closer now.

“Why corporate law?” Ilya asks.

Shane doesn’t hesitate. “I like the structure,” he says. “The pressure. The intensity of it. You’re responsible for outcomes, but most of the work is independent. Controlled.”

Ilya listens. “You don’t have to manage emotions,” he says.

Shane blinks slightly. “I manage people,” he says.

“Not same,” Ilya replies.

A pause. Shane doesn’t argue it. “My turn,” Shane says.

“Da.”

“What do you miss most about Russia?”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Food.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s it?”

“That is not ‘it,’” Ilya says. “But it is my mother’s cooking I miss most. Pelmeni on the stove, always too many, and borscht that stays warm for hours. The smell of it. It feels like home.”

“Fair.” They shift again. Closer. The song is nearing its end.

Ilya looks at him. Really looks. “You like girls?” he says.

Shane frowns slightly. “Yes?”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “Yes,” he repeats. A beat. “Why are you not with Rose?”

Shane blinks. Then his expression changes. Understanding. He laughs. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just real.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

Ilya frowns. “You said yes.”

“I thought you meant… as people,” Shane says. “Like… do I like women as people.” Ilya stares at him. “Do you not?”

“I do,” Ilya says.

“Right.” A pause. “I’m gay, Ilya,” Shane says. Simple. Clear.

Ilya feels something in his chest loosen. Immediately. He doesn’t react to that, not outwardly. “You dated Rose,” he says.

Shane nods. “Briefly, but I don't know how you could know that.”

“Why not now?”

“We weren’t compatible,” Shane says. “She helped me figure that out.”

“How?”

“By being… very clear about it,” Shane says.

Ilya nods slowly. That makes sense. The music shifts. The last notes of “You’ve Got a Friend” fade out, replaced by something brighter.

“Diamonds.” The rhythm changes. So does the energy. Ilya doesn’t let go. His hand stays at Shane’s back. Shane doesn’t move away. They adjust without speaking, the movement shifting to match the new tempo. Different, but still connected. Still close.

Ilya looks at him again.

Freckles.

Brown eyes.

Everything about him still exactly where it was. Real. He doesn’t look away this time. He doesn’t need to.

***

Cliff doesn’t ask for attention. He just takes it. One second the room is moving, conversation layered over music and glass and quiet laughter. The next, there’s a shift. Subtle, but enough. He’s standing with a glass in his hand, not tapping it, not calling anyone to order. People notice anyway.

“I’ll keep this short,” Cliff says. No one believes him.

Ilya leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped over it, the other still resting, almost unconsciously, at the small of Shane’s back where he’s settled beside him. The contact has become habit. Necessary.

Cliff glances at him once. Then looks out at the room. “I met Ilya when he was just starting out,” he says. “Which is a polite way of saying he had no idea what he was doing.” A small ripple of laughter moves through the room. Ilya narrows his eyes. Cliff ignores him. “He had just signed with his first agency,” Cliff continues. “Not a big one. Not yet. They sent him to a casting. Important one. First real opportunity.”

Ilya already knows where this is going. “No,” he says under his breath.

Cliff keeps going. “They gave him the address, the time, the name of the designer, and one very simple instruction.” Cliff pauses. “‘Wear something simple.’” A beat. “Which Ilya interpreted as…” Cliff looks at him. “…optional.”

The room laughs. Ilya exhales sharply. “It was not optional.”

“It was very optional to you,” Cliff says. He turns back to the room. “He shows up to this casting,” Cliff continues, “in a full look. Not just styled. Curated. Jacket. Jewelry. Boots that probably cost more than my rent at the time.”

“They did not cost more than your rent,” Ilya says.

Cliff doesn’t even look at him. “They absolutely did.” More laughter. “The casting director looks at him,” Cliff says, “and says, ‘We said simple.’” Cliff pauses again, just long enough. “And Ilya looks at him…” He glances at Ilya again, almost fond now. “…and says, ‘This is simple. You should see my complicated.’” 

The room breaks. Even Shane laughs, softer than the rest but real, shoulders shaking just slightly under Ilya’s hand. Ilya feels heat rise up his neck.

“This is not funny,” he says.

“It is extremely funny,” Cliff replies. He continues before Ilya can interrupt again. “They almost didn’t let him in,” Cliff says. “Almost. But then they did. Because he walked into that room like he already belonged there. Like it wasn’t a question.” Cliff’s tone shifts slightly there. Less teasing, more… something else. “And he booked it,” Cliff finishes. A beat. “Of course he did.”

The room settles. Cliff looks back at Ilya, then at Shane. “I’ve worked with him ever since,” he says. “Not because he makes my life easy. He absolutely does not.” A few people laugh again. “But because he knows who he is,” Cliff adds. “And he doesn’t apologize for it.” He lifts his glass. “To Ilya,” he says. “And to Shane, who apparently decided that was a good idea.” The room laughs again, warmer this time. “To both of you.”

Glasses lift. Ilya shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Just slightly. He glances at Shane. Shane is already looking at him. There’s something there. Soft. Amused. Not mocking. Ilya looks away first.

***

Hayden is less composed. He taps his glass.

Twice.

Louder than necessary.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m definitely not keeping this short.” Jackie laughs quietly into her hand. 

Shane exhales. “This should be good,” he mutters. Ilya shifts slightly closer, his hand still at Shane’s back. Grounding. He watches.

Hayden looks at Shane first. Then out at the room. “I’ve known Shane since we were kids,” he says. “Peewee hockey.” 

Shane groans softly. “No.”

“Yes,” Hayden says. “We’re doing this.” The room leans in slightly. “I met him at practice,” Hayden continues. “First day. New team. Everyone’s loud, trying to show off, figure out where they fit.” A pause. “And then there’s Shane.” Hayden gestures toward him. “Standing there. Already in full gear. Laces perfect. Stick taped exactly right. Helmet straight. Not talking to anyone.” A few quiet laughs.

“That checks out,” Jackie murmurs.

Hayden nods. “It absolutely checks out.” He continues. “Coach splits us into drills,” he says. “Basic stuff. Passing. Positioning. Nothing complicated.” Hayden shifts his weight slightly, settling into the story. “And there’s this one kid,” he says. “Bigger than the rest of us. Louder. Decides he’s going to run the drill instead of follow it.”

Ilya’s attention sharpens.

“He starts cutting lines,” Hayden says. “Taking extra reps. Shoving other kids out of the way. You know the type.” A few nods around the room. “Coach is across the rink dealing with something else,” Hayden continues. “So no one stops him.” A beat. “Except Shane.”

Ilya looks at him, really looks this time. Hayden smiles slightly. “He doesn’t say anything at first,” he says. “Just… adjusts, waits his turn. Does exactly what he’s supposed to do.” Another beat. “And then this kid tries to cut him.” Hayden pauses. “And Shane just… doesn’t move.” A small laugh moves through the room. “He plants his feet,” Hayden says. “Holds his position. Doesn’t shove. Doesn’t yell. Just… stays there.”

Ilya can see it clearly.

“That kid runs into him,” Hayden continues. “Harder than he should. And Shane still doesn’t move.” A beat. “Then he looks at him,” Hayden says. “Calm as anything. And says, ‘You’re out of position.’”

The room laughs.

But Ilya doesn’t. He’s watching Shane.

Hayden keeps going. “And the kid gets mad,” he says. “Of course he does. Tries to shove him again.” Another pause. “And Shane just… sidesteps him. Clean. Controlled. Takes the puck. Finishes the drill exactly the way it’s supposed to be done.” A beat. “Didn’t make it a fight,” Hayden says. “Didn’t make it a thing. Just… refused to let someone else mess up what he knew was right.” The room quiets slightly. “Coach saw the end of it,” Hayden adds. “Didn’t say anything. Just nodded.” Hayden looks at Shane again. “That’s who he is,” he says.

Simple. Clear.

“He doesn’t make noise about it,” Hayden continues. “He just… does what needs to be done. Exactly how it’s supposed to be done. Every time.”

Ilya feels something shift in his chest. Unexpected.

“And I’ve been trying to keep up with him ever since,” Hayden finishes. A beat. He looks at Ilya now. “You got lucky,” he says. Not joking. Not entirely. Then he lifts his glass. “To Shane,” he says. “And to Ilya.”

The room follows.

“To both of you.”

Ilya doesn’t lift his glass right away. He’s looking at Shane. Really looking.

Freckles.

Brown eyes.

Everything Cliff said, everything Hayden said, settling into something clearer. There’s a steadiness there. A kind of certainty Ilya recognizes, even if it looks different from his own. He feels it. And he doesn’t realize what his expression looks like when he does. When Shane glances at him, he freezes for half a second. Then his mouth curves.

Small.

Soft.

Amused.

Ilya doesn’t look away. Not this time.

Then he lifts his glass.

***

The room feels different. Softer.

The light has shifted, warmer now as the sun lowers, the glass walls catching gold instead of bright white. The city beyond them is still there, steady and distant, but the space itself has closed in slightly, shaped more by the people still inside it than the view.

The music is louder. Not overwhelming. Just enough that conversations have to lean closer to exist. Ilya is not sitting. He hasn’t been for a while. His hand is still at the small of Shane’s back. It has not moved. At some point, it stopped feeling like a choice. Now it just… is.

Shane doesn’t react to it anymore. He leans into it without thinking, shifting with Ilya as they move through the space, pulled from one group to another, then back again, then into something looser as the structure of the evening fades. They end up on the dance floor again. Not a formal dance this time. No clear start or end. Just movement, friends and family filtering in around them, forming something that feels less like a performance and more like celebration.

Hayden pulls Jackie into a turn that’s slightly too wide. She laughs, steadying herself against him.

The kids are still awake, somehow, moving in small, chaotic circles at the edge of it, energy uncontained but contained enough not to disrupt anything.

Cliff stands near the edge at first, watching. Then someone – Rose, maybe – pulls him in. He looks offended. Then he stays.

Kip and Scott move together more easily, familiar in a way that doesn’t require attention.

Ilya takes it all in without breaking his rhythm. He is… relaxed. More than he expected to be. The tension from earlier has settled into something else. Something steadier. Not gone. Just… less sharp. Shane turns slightly toward him, closer now, their movements aligning without effort.

“You’re still here,” Shane says.

“Yes.”

“I thought you might disappear at some point.”

“No.” A beat. “I am married,” Ilya adds.

Shane’s mouth curves. “Yeah, you are.” They move again, turning slowly through the crowd.

Ilya looks at him.

Freckles. Still there. More visible now in the softer light.

His eyes are warm again, the same way they had been earlier, but less guarded now. Less structured. Ilya doesn’t look away.

Not until something shifts at the edge of his vision.

Julia.

She doesn’t interrupt loudly. She doesn’t need to. She steps into their space at exactly the moment where movement slows, where there’s enough pause for her presence to register without forcing it. “Ilya. Shane.”

They stop. The room continues around them.

“Yes,” Shane says.

Julia looks at both of them once, assessing in that same quiet, exact way she always has. “My role here is complete,” she says. Simple. Final.

Ilya nods. Shane does the same.

Julia holds out an envelope. Heavy, structured. Shane takes it. At the same time, both of their phones buzz.

Email. Of course.

“Your travel arrangements have been finalized,” Julia continues. “You’ll be leaving this evening.”

Shane glances down at the envelope briefly, then back up. “Where?”

“Tofino.” 

“Everything you need is included,” Julia says. “Transportation, accommodations, schedule.” A beat. “There is no further action required from either of you.” Of course there isn’t. That’s the point.

Shane nods once. “Thank you.”

Julia inclines her head slightly. “I wish you both well,” she says. And then she’s gone. Just like that. No lingering. No final instruction. Just… absence.

Ilya looks at Shane. “Tofino,” he says.

Shane exhales softly. “Tofino.”

A pause. “Do you know where that is?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Shane’s mouth curves again. “I’m glad one of us does.”

Ilya nods. “That is enough.”

They don’t open the envelope. Not yet. Instead, Shane glances around the room. The people still here. Ilya follows his gaze. Understands.

“Yes,” he says. They move together again. Not dancing now. Something more intentional.

Goodbyes.

***

Yuna is first. She steps forward before they reach her, hands already lifting slightly before settling again, controlled. “Call when you arrive,” she says to Shane.

“I will.” She looks at Ilya. A pause. Then: “Take care of him.”

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

David’s handshake is firm. “Travel safe,” he says.

“We will.”

Hayden pulls Shane into a quick, tight hug, then looks at Ilya.

“Don’t mess this up,” he says.

“I won’t,” Ilya replies.

“Good.”

Jackie smiles, softer. “Have fun,” she says.

“We will,” Shane says.

The kids are last. They’re tired now, energy finally fading, questions slower, softer. “Are you coming back?” one asks.

“Yes,” Shane says.

“Okay.” That’s enough. They accept it.

Rose waits until the end. Of course she does. She steps forward, looking at Shane first. “You’re okay?” she says.

“Yes.”

She nods once. Then looks at Ilya. A pause. Something unspoken passes there. “Take care of him,” she says.

“I will,” Ilya replies. 

She studies him for a second longer. Then nods. Satisfied. “Good.” She steps back.

***

Cliff doesn’t hug. He just looks at Ilya. “You text me when you land,” he says.

“Da.”

“And when you get there.”

“Yes.”

“And if anything—”

“I will.”

Cliff nods. Then, quieter: “Go.”

Ilya does.

***

Kip pulls him in briefly, quick and warm. “Don’t disappear completely,” he says.

“I will not.”

Scott nods. “Enjoy it.”

“I will.”

***

Svetlana is waiting for them near the edge of the room. Not in the center of anything. Not part of any cluster of conversation. Just… positioned. Exactly where she needs to be. Of course. Ilya sees her before Shane does.

He shifts slightly, guiding them in that direction with the hand still resting at Shane’s back. Shane follows without question, attention still half on the room, the people they’re leaving behind. Then he sees her.

“Svetlana,” Ilya says.

“Ilya.” Her gaze moves to Shane immediately. “Shane.”

“Hi,” Shane says, already adjusting, already understanding why she’s here. There’s no small talk. There never is.

Svetlana lifts the folder in her hands slightly. “If you have a moment?”

Shane nods without hesitation. “Of course.”

Ilya exhales quietly. “Now?”

“Yes,” Svetlana says. “Now.”

They step slightly to the side, just far enough from the remaining guests to create a pocket of space without fully leaving the room. The music continues behind them, softened by distance, voices blending into something indistinct.

Svetlana opens the folder. Everything is exactly where it should be. Tabs. Pages. Marked lines.

“Final signatures,” she says, placing the documents on a nearby table. “These will be filed immediately upon receipt of the certificate.”

Shane sets the envelope Julia gave him down beside it without looking inside. He doesn’t hesitate. “Where?” he asks.

Svetlana turns the first page toward him, tapping the indicated line. “Here. And here.” He takes the pen she offers. Ilya watches him. There’s no visible tension in Shane’s hand. No pause. No second-guessing. Just the same controlled, precise movement he’s had all day, his name appearing cleanly where it’s required. It feels… decisive. Final in a different way than the ceremony had.

Svetlana turns the next page as soon as he finishes. “Date here,” she says. Shane fills it in. “Initial here.” He does.

The pages move quickly after that. Efficient. Structured. Each one completed and set aside before the next appears. Ilya doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t move his hand. He just… watches. This is the part that matters. This is the part that makes everything else real.

“Last one,” Svetlana says, sliding it forward. Shane signs. Svetlana gathers the papers immediately, aligning them with a precise tap against the table. Everything straight. Everything in order. “Done,” she says. A beat. She looks at Shane. “I will file these tonight,” she says. “You will receive confirmation once processing begins.”

“Thank you,” Shane replies.

Her attention shifts briefly to Ilya. A look passes between them. Quick. Understood. Then she closes the folder. “You should go,” she says. Not unkind. Just correct.

Shane nods once. “Yes.” There’s a brief pause. Not awkward. Just… the end of something.

“It was good to meet you,” Shane says.

“And you,” Svetlana replies.

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then adds, “Travel safely.”

“We will,” Ilya says.

Svetlana inclines her head once, then steps back. Not lingering, never lingering.

Ilya looks at Shane. “It is done,” he says. 

Shane lets out a quiet breath. “Yes.” 

Ilya’s hand shifts slightly at his back. Not removing. Just… grounding. “Come,” he says. And this time, when they turn toward the doors, there is nothing left behind that still needs them.

By the time they reach the doors again, the room feels smaller. Quieter. Like something has already ended. Shane’s hand finds the envelope in his grip again. Ilya’s hand is still at his back. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The doors open. The night air is cooler. Sharper. Real in a way the room wasn’t. They step out together.

Chapter End Notes

Their first dance is to the song “You’ve Got a Friend” by James Taylor. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKaWQxlTsRM

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine - Shane

The flight to Tofino feels unreal. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just disconnected from everything that came before it, like Shane stepped out of his own life sometime after the reception and hasn’t fully caught up yet.

He’s exhausted. That’s part of it. The rest is Ilya.

His husband.

The word still catches strangely in Shane’s chest every time he thinks it.

His husband is asleep beside him for most of the flight from Vancouver to Tofino, head tipped slightly toward the window, curls falling forward just enough to soften the sharpness of his face. The overhead lights are dimmed low. Outside, there’s almost nothing visible beyond the clouds and darkness. Shane looks at him longer than he should. He still can’t quite believe how beautiful he is.

***

The tiny airport in Tofino is nearly empty when they land. Rain drifts sideways through the glow of the runway lights, more mist than storm. The air smells different immediately. Colder. Cleaner. Like salt and wet cedar. A driver waits outside holding a discreet sign with both of their names. Neither of them comments on that.

Ilya looks half asleep as they slide into the backseat. His tie is gone, collar loosened slightly, jacket folded beside him. He leans his head back against the seat with a quiet exhale. Shane is still too wired to relax. Adrenaline is carrying him now.

The roads are dark and winding. Trees crowd close on either side, enormous and black against the night sky. Every once in a while, Shane catches flashes of water through them. Beside him, Ilya shifts slightly.

“You are still awake,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

“Yes.”

“You should sleep.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Ilya gives a small hum of acknowledgment. Then, after a second, Ilya’s hand slides across the seat between them until it bumps lightly against Shane’s. Not holding. Just touching. Shane looks down at it. Then quietly turns his hand enough that their fingers settle together naturally. Ilya doesn’t open his eyes. But he doesn’t pull away either.

***

The Wickaninnish Inn is warm when they arrive. Low-lit, quiet.

The lobby feels less like a hotel and more like someone designed a luxury cabin and then expanded it outward. Wood, stone, soft amber lighting. Huge windows facing darkness and the faint silver movement of the ocean beyond. A fire burns somewhere nearby.

Shane barely registers the check-in process. He’s too aware of Ilya beside him, too aware that eventually they’re going upstairs. Together.

The suite door closes behind them with a soft click. And suddenly there’s no one else. No guests. No music. No Julia. Just them.

The room is beautiful in a way that almost doesn’t feel real. Warm cedar walls. Cream-colored furniture. A fireplace already lit beside the bed, flames flickering low against dark stone. The ocean stretches beyond the massive windows, invisible except for movement and sound. Waves crashing somewhere below the cliffs. Wind moving through the trees. The bathroom is enormous.

Shane notices that immediately because he needs somewhere safe to look. Double sinks. White marble. A soaking tub positioned directly beside the window overlooking the water. It feels intimate just existing inside it.

Ilya walks further into the room slowly, taking everything in.

“This is insane,” he says quietly.

“Yes.” A pause. Then they both just… stand there. Because now what? The wedding is over. There are no more steps. No more instructions. Just this. Ilya clears his throat lightly. “Bathroom first.”

Shane nods too quickly. “Right.”

They end up side by side at the sinks anyway. Of course they do. Shane brushes his teeth while trying very hard not to look directly at his husband in the mirror. Ilya seems significantly less concerned about that, occasionally glancing over openly while washing his face.

It should feel awkward. It does feel awkward. But underneath that is something else.

Curiosity. Awareness.

The kind that makes Shane hyper-conscious of every movement. The roll of Ilya’s sleeves when he pushes them back. The line of his throat. The gold cross still resting against his skin. 

Shane changes in the bathroom mostly for self-preservation. When he comes back out wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, Ilya is standing near the windows in gray lounge pants and nothing else. 

Shane almost walks directly into the arm of the sofa.

Ilya turns. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

A pause. Then Ilya’s mouth curves slightly because apparently he knows exactly what happened.

Shane decides immediately that this man is going to ruin his life.

“There is one bed,” Ilya says after a second.

“Yeah.” 

Another pause. “I can sleep on sofa.”

“No,” Shane says immediately. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Because Shane is absolutely not spending his honeymoon sleeping separately from the man he impulsively married twelve hours ago because he’s intimidated by his abs. That would be insane. Probably.

Ilya studies him for a second longer, then nods once. “Okay.”

***

The bed is enormous. That helps. Slightly. They climb in carefully, like two people trying not to startle each other. There’s still distance between them. Not much, but enough. The room is dark except for the fireplace and the faint silver-blue glow from outside. The ocean is loud. Shane stares at the ceiling for several minutes before realizing Ilya is awake too.

“You sleeping?” Ilya asks quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

Shane turns slightly toward him. Ilya’s hair is messy now, softer in the dim light. “We actually did it,” Shane says before he can stop himself.

Ilya looks at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Yes.”

The ocean crashes somewhere below them. Neither of them moves away.

***

Shane wakes to gray light and the sound of rain. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he feels warmth beside him and remembers. Ilya is asleep facing him. At some point during the night, they drifted closer. Not tangled together, not dramatic, but close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him under the blankets. Close enough that one of Ilya’s hands is resting loosely against Shane’s wrist.

Shane stays still, watching him. Morning softens him. It takes away some of the sharpness from his face. Without the structure of expensive clothing and careful styling, he looks younger somehow. Less guarded.

Beautiful.

Shane is in trouble. Eventually Ilya opens his eyes slowly. Neither of them moves. “Hi,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya blinks once, still waking up. “Hi.” A pause. Then: “You stare a lot.”

Shane exhales softly. “I’m noticing.” Ilya’s mouth curves slightly. The rain continues outside. Neither of them rushes to get up.

***

Coffee happens in robes, which somehow feels more intimate than sleeping beside each other did. Shane sits near the window holding a mug between both hands while Ilya wanders slowly around the room like he’s still orienting himself to being here.

The ocean is visible now. Wild and gray and enormous. Waves crashing against dark rock beneath a sky layered thick with clouds.

“It looks cold,” Ilya says.

“It is cold.”

“You sound happy about that.”

“I might be.”

Ilya snorts softly.

The room still feels warm despite the weather outside. The fireplace crackles quietly behind them, filling the suite with that dry cedar-and-smoke warmth Shane had noticed the night before. The windows fog faintly at the edges from the contrast between inside and out. Somewhere below them, waves crash hard enough that Shane can feel the vibration of it through the floor if he pays attention.

Ilya drifts toward the wet bar barefoot, robe hanging loose enough at the throat that Shane catches another glimpse of gold chain and warm skin before immediately forcing himself to look back out at the water.

This is becoming a problem. A very specific problem.

“You always wake up this early?” Ilya asks.

Shane glances toward the clock automatically. “It’s almost ten.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “Very early.”

Shane smiles into his coffee before he can stop himself. Ilya notices that too. Of course he does.

He leans against the counter, watching Shane openly while the coffee machine hisses quietly behind him. There’s still sleep in the edges of him somehow. Softer curls. Bare feet. Less polish. Shane likes this version of him dangerously fast.

“You are less nervous today,” Ilya says after a minute.

Shane considers lying. Instead, he answers softly, “A little.”

“You were very nervous yesterday.”

“I got married yesterday.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “That was stressful for me also.”

Shane laughs softly at the understatement of it. The sound seems to catch Ilya off guard slightly. Not because Shane laughed, exactly. More because it’s unguarded. Easy. Shane realizes with a small jolt that he can’t remember the last time he sounded like that around another person this quickly.

Ilya watches him for another second before turning back toward the coffee machine. “You take cream?”

“A little.”

“Sugar?”

“No.”

“Very lawyer of you.”

Shane blinks. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “But it feels true.”

The mug appears in Shane's hands a moment later. Ilya crosses back toward the windows and drops onto the sofa opposite Shane, tucking one leg beneath himself carelessly. Shane’s brain immediately supplies the fact that he’s beautiful again.

They sit quietly for a while after that. Not awkwardly. Just quietly. Rain drifts against the windows in soft bursts. The sky hangs low over the water, heavy and silver-gray. Out on the beach below them, a few distant figures move slowly along the shoreline bundled into rain jackets, tiny against the scale of the ocean.

“It feels very far away,” Ilya says eventually.

Shane looks over. “From what?”

“Everything.” The answer settles between them. Shane understands immediately what he means. Montreal already feels distant. The wedding feels distant. The reception, the music, the pressure of everyone watching them all day yesterday. Even Julia feels strangely abstract now.

Out here there’s only the ocean. The trees. The room.

Them.

“I think that was probably the point,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya hums in agreement, staring back out at the water. “You come places like this often?”

“No.”

“You should.”

Shane looks down at his mug for a second. “I don’t usually take vacations.”

That gets his attention. Ilya turns fully toward him now. “Ever?”

“Not really.”

“You are thirty-four years old.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You do not leave work?”

“I leave work to work somewhere else sometimes.”

“That is not vacation.”

“I’m aware.”

Ilya studies him openly for a second longer, expression difficult to read. “That makes me a little sad for you.”

The honesty of it catches Shane off guard. Not pity. Not judgment. Just genuine sadness on his behalf.

Something in Shane’s chest tightens unexpectedly. “I like my job,” he says after a moment.

“I know,” Ilya replies easily. “Still sad.”

Shane doesn’t know what to do with that. So instead he looks back out at the ocean and says, “You’re one to talk. I’m pretty sure you’ve worked in ten countries this month.”

“Only six,” Ilya corrects immediately. “But I am dramatic and glamorous while doing it.”

Shane laughs again, quieter this time. Ilya smiles slightly into his coffee like that was the intended outcome all along.

***

They walk on Chesterman Beach later that morning, bundled into jackets against the wind. The beach stretches forever in both directions, pale sand packed hard from rain, driftwood scattered along the shoreline. The ocean feels huge here. Untamed in a way Shane isn’t used to. The wind catches Ilya’s curls immediately. Shane tries not to stare at that too.

He fails.

Ilya is quieter here. Not withdrawn, just… calmer. Less performative. The version of him from the reception feels distant already. No effortless charm turned outward toward a room full of people. No polished confidence sharpened for attention. Just Ilya.

Shane likes this version more than he probably should after less than twenty-four hours. They stop near the waterline. Ilya shoves his hands deeper into his pockets against the wind. “Your Canada is aggressive.”

Shane laughs before he can stop himself. “My Canada?”

“Yes. It feels personal.”

“It’s just weather.”

“It is hostile weather.”

Shane’s smile lingers longer than usual.

The wind pushes at them hard enough that they both angle slightly into it without thinking. Waves crash against the shore in uneven rhythms, white foam stretching thin across the packed sand before pulling back again. Everything smells like salt and cedar and rain.

Ilya looks out at the water with narrowed eyes. “People swim in this?”

Shane nodded. “In the summer.”

“This is summer-adjacent already.”

“It’s May.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “That should mean something.”

“It does. This is nicer than winter.”

Ilya turns slowly toward him. “That is upsetting information.”

Shane laughs again. It comes easier around him than it should.

They keep walking after that, slower now, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush when the wind shifts unexpectedly. Neither of them comments on it.

Shane notices people noticing Ilya. Even here. A couple passes them going the opposite direction, and Shane watches the moment recognition flickers across one woman’s face. She says something quietly to the man beside her. They both glance back once. Ilya pretends not to notice. The pretending is practiced enough that Shane realizes this happens constantly. That realization settles strangely in his chest.

“You hate that,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya glances over immediately. “What?”

“Being recognized.”

A pause. Then, honest again: “Sometimes.”

The answer surprises Shane a little. Not because of what Ilya says, but because he says it without trying to smooth it over or make it charming. “When don’t you?”

Ilya considers that seriously while they step over a long piece of driftwood half buried in the sand. “When I choose it,” he says finally. “When it is work. Events. Shoots. Parties.” A shrug beneath his jacket. “Then it is performance. Fine. Easy.”

“And when it isn’t?”

Another pause. “When it is random…” He searches briefly for the word. “It makes me feel observed.”

Shane looks at him. There’s something unexpectedly vulnerable in that admission. Especially coming from someone who looks the way Ilya does, someone who seems so naturally comfortable being looked at. Shane understands it immediately anyway. Not the exact experience. But the feeling of being perceived when you haven’t prepared yourself for it. “That sounds exhausting,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya looks over at him then, curls blowing wildly across his forehead in the wind. “Yes.” Simple. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth.

The ocean roars beside them. Shane watches him for another second too long before forcing himself to look away again. His attraction to this man feels less manageable by the hour. It would honestly be easier if Ilya were just beautiful. Shane could compartmentalize beautiful. The problem is that he’s becoming fond of him already too.

They walk in silence for a while after that. Not awkward silence, the kind that settles naturally when neither person feels pressure to fill it. At one point, Ilya bends suddenly and picks something up from the sand. A shell. Small. White. Broken slightly along one edge. “What is this?”

“A shell.”

“I know it is shell, Shane,” Ilya says. “What kind?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Hm.” He turns it over thoughtfully in his fingers anyway before slipping it into his pocket like he’s decided to keep it.

Shane watches that happen with inexplicable interest. “You collect random beach garbage often?”

Ilya looks offended. “It is not garbage. It is memory.”

That lands harder than it probably should. The wind sharpens suddenly, colder now, and Shane instinctively zips his jacket higher. Beside him, Ilya shivers once. Immediately Shane says, “Do you want to head back?”

Ilya looks over. “You are cold also.”

“I’m Canadian. I’m legally obligated not to admit that.”

That earns him a real, startled laugh. Bright enough that Shane feels something warm unfurl low in his chest despite the freezing wind. “There,” Ilya says immediately, pointing at him. “That. You make joke and then look surprised every time somebody laughs.”

“I don’t look surprised.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You are doing it right now.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue and then realizes, horribly, that Ilya might actually be right, which only makes Ilya smile wider.

God.

Shane is in so much trouble.

***

Lunch in town is quieter. They choose a small seafood place overlooking the harbor. The restaurant is warm compared to outside, windows fogged faintly at the corners from damp jackets and hot food. Fishing boats drift beyond the glass in slow movements against the gray water. Everything smells like chowder and fried fish and coffee.

Their table is tucked near the window. Ilya slides into the booth across from Shane, pushing damp curls back from his forehead while shrugging out of his jacket. His cheeks are pink from the cold. Shane notices that immediately too. He notices everything immediately now.

A server appears with menus and water. Ilya thanks her automatically, easy and charming without seeming like he’s trying very hard at it. Shane watches the interaction longer than necessary before forcing himself to actually look at his menu.

“You are staring again,” Ilya says without looking up.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Shane takes a sip of water instead of responding.

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly around the edge of his coffee cup.

The quiet between them settles naturally after that. Not strained. Just calm. Shane realizes he likes sitting across from him. Likes the shape of him in the booth, one leg stretched slightly beneath the table, fingers loose around his mug. It's a dangerous thought.

They order eventually. Chowder for Shane. Fish tacos for Ilya after a brief dramatic complaint about Canadian portion sizes.

“You haven't even seen the portion.”

“I can feel it spiritually.”

Shane laughs softly into his coffee. Again, Ilya watches him like that’s the more interesting thing happening.

The recognition happens halfway through the meal. Shane notices before the woman approaches. A flicker of hesitation near the hostess stand. A second look. Then another. He watches the exact moment Ilya notices too. The shift is immediate. Small enough that most people probably wouldn’t catch it. Shane does.

Tension settles through Ilya’s shoulders first. Then his posture changes subtly, body angling just slightly away from the room while his expression smooths into something easier. More polished, prepared.

The woman approaches carefully. “Sorry,” she says, already apologetic. “I just— are you Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya smiles immediately. Easy. Warm. Effortless. It doesn't reach his eyes. “Yes.”

“I knew it,” she says, laughing nervously. “Oh my god. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You are not bothering.” Shane watches the entire interaction quietly.

The woman asks for a picture. Ilya agrees without hesitation, standing smoothly from the booth. The smile never slips. One arm settles lightly around the woman’s shoulders while she holds up her phone, visibly thrilled. It lasts less than a minute. Then she thanks him again and leaves. And just like that, the smile disappears. Not completely, but enough. Ilya sits back down across from Shane quieter than before, attention dropping immediately to his drink. He stirs the melting ice in it absently even though it doesn’t need stirring.

Shane waits until the woman is fully gone before speaking. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The answer comes too quickly, too automatic.

Shane watches him for a second. Ilya doesn’t look back up right away. Outside, rain taps softly against the harbor windows. Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, someone laughs too loudly. The sound of dishes clinks faintly from the kitchen. “You don’t have to answer fast,” Shane says quietly.

That gets his attention. Ilya looks up then, expression unreadable for a second before softening slightly around the edges. “I know.” A pause. Then, more honestly this time: “It is just tiring sometimes.”

Shane nods once. Not because he fully understands the experience itself. He doesn’t. But he understands exhaustion. Performance. The pressure of constantly needing to be “on” in front of other people.

“What happens if you say no?” Shane asks.

“To picture?”

“Yeah.”

Ilya leans back slightly against the booth. “Usually nothing.”

“Usually?”

A small shrug. “Sometimes people become angry. Or disappointed. Like I ruin version of me they imagined.”

That settles heavily somewhere in Shane’s chest, because Ilya says it so casually, like he’s long since accepted it as part of the job. “You don’t owe strangers access to you,” Shane says before he can stop himself.

Ilya goes still for just a second, then he smiles again, smaller this time. Realer. “You sound little protective.”

Heat climbs immediately into Shane’s face. “I sound logical.”

“Yes,” Ilya says easily. “Very logical.”

Shane narrows his eyes slightly. Ilya’s smile widens just enough to make it clear he knows exactly what he’s doing. The server returns with their food before Shane can formulate a response that doesn’t sound incriminating. Probably for the best. Still, Shane notices that Ilya relaxes again slowly over the rest of the meal. Piece by piece. His shoulders loosen. The polish fades back into something softer. And Shane remembers that too.

***

The storm watching lounge at the hotel becomes their place that afternoon. Large windows facing the ocean. Deep chairs. Quiet conversation around them. Rain lashes the glass intermittently. They spend hours there without really planning to. Reading, answering occasional texts, existing beside each other.

The room smells faintly like coffee and wet cedar. A fire burns low in a massive stone fireplace near the center of the lounge, soft enough not to overpower the sound of the ocean outside. Guests drift in and out quietly over the course of the afternoon, wrapped in sweaters and blankets, speaking in low voices like the weather itself requires it.

Shane settles into one of the oversized chairs near the windows with a book he hasn’t actually absorbed more than a few pages of. Across from him, Ilya sprawls sideways in his own chair with surprising carelessness for someone who always seems so visually composed in public. One leg draped over the armrest. Reading glasses balanced low on his nose for almost ten full minutes before he realizes Shane has noticed them and immediately removes them.

“You wear glasses.”

“Sometimes.”

“You hid this from me.”

“Yes.” Shane smiles faintly and returns to his book before Ilya can see the reaction too clearly.

Outside, the weather worsens steadily. Rain streaks sideways against the windows now, the ocean beyond them shifting darker gray beneath the low clouds. Waves slam against the rocks hard enough to send white spray into the air. It should feel dramatic. Instead it feels strangely peaceful.

At some point Shane realizes they’ve stopped reaching for their phones every few minutes. The instinct to check emails, messages, schedules fades slowly into the background beneath the rhythm of the storm.

Shane answers one text from Rose. Alive?

He stares at it for a second before replying. Unfortunately.

Her response comes almost immediately. Good. Your mom’s already emotionally attached to him. 

Shane huffs softly through his nose before locking his phone again.

“What?”

Shane glances up. “Rose.”

“Ah.”

“She says my mother is emotionally attached to you already.”

Ilya looks unsurprised. “Your mother has good instincts.”

“That’s incredibly arrogant.”

“Yes.”

A beat. “But probably true,” Shane admits.

Ilya smiles slightly at that and goes back to his book. The quiet settles again after that, comfortable now, easy in a way Shane hadn’t expected so quickly.

At one point he looks up from his book to find Ilya already watching him, not even pretending otherwise.

“What?” Shane asks.

“You relax differently here.”

Shane blinks. “Differently than where?”

“Wedding,” Ilya says. “Montreal. Everywhere.”

Rain rattles sharply against the glass behind him. Shane considers the question more seriously than he expects to. “How?”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder slightly. “Your face is softer.”

Shane stares at him. “That sounds fake.”

“Is not fake.”

“You’re saying my face looks stressed normally?”

“Yes.”

Shane lets out a surprised laugh despite himself.

Ilya watches that happen with visible satisfaction. “You joke more here also,” he adds.

“I joke.”

“You are doing it now less because you are aware of it.”

Shane narrows his eyes slightly. “You analyze people for a living?”

“No,” Ilya says. “I just look at you a lot.”

The honesty of it hits Shane directly in the chest. He looks back down at his book immediately even though he’s no longer reading a single word of it. 

A pause. Then, quieter: “You do too.”

Ilya considers that. Then nods once. “Yes.”

Shane looks back up. Ilya’s attention has drifted toward the windows again, expression calmer than Shane has maybe ever seen it. No sharp edges. No deliberate charm. Just a man sitting in a chair watching the ocean during a storm. “You’re different here too,” Shane says.

Ilya glances back over. “How?”

“You’re quieter.”

“Bad quieter?”

“No,” Shane says immediately, too quickly.

Ilya notices that too, of course. “What kind then?”

Shane searches for the right word while rain pounds harder against the windows again. “Less guarded,” he says finally.

That stills something in Ilya for a second. Not dramatically, just enough that Shane notices. Then Ilya leans his head back against the chair with a quiet exhale. “Maybe I am tired.”

“You’re definitely tired.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But maybe also…” He gestures vaguely toward the windows, the ocean, the storm beyond it. “There is nothing to perform for here.”

That lands somewhere deep inside Shane before he can stop it, because he understands exactly what Ilya means. Not in the same way. But enough.

Outside, another wave crashes violently against the rocks. Inside, the fire crackles softly. Shane watches him for another second before saying, “You don’t have to perform for me.” The words come out before he fully thinks through them.

Ilya looks at him immediately. Really looks at him. For a second the rest of the room seems to fall quieter around them. Then Ilya says softly, “I know.” And somehow that feels even more intimate than if he’d sounded surprised.

***

Dinner at The Pointe stretches late into the evening. The restaurant sits almost suspended over the water, glass walls turning the storm outside into part of the room itself. Candles flicker low across the tables, warm reflections shifting against the windows every time lightning flashes somewhere deeper out over the ocean. Rain taps steadily against the glass.

Neither of them seems in a hurry to leave.

Their conversation moves slowly at first. Easier topics. Food. Travel. Stories from work. Ilya complaining dramatically about wetsuits despite not having worn one yet. Shane admitting he hasn’t properly taken time off work in nearly a decade and watching genuine disbelief spread across Ilya’s face. That part is almost funny.

Then, gradually, something shifts. Not sudden. Just quieter, more honest. The conversation circles closer to the things they’ve both been carefully stepping around since the wedding.

Julia.

The forms.

Why them.

Shane talks about the breakup in broad strokes at first. How long it lasted. How certain he’d been that it was permanent. How humiliating it felt afterward to realize he’d built so much of his life around someone who ultimately decided not to stay in it. He doesn’t say everything, but he says enough. 

Enough for Ilya to understand that it wasn’t really the breakup itself that brought Shane to Julia. It was what came after. The exhaustion. The uncertainty. The realization that he didn’t know how to start over again.

“I didn't want random anymore,” Shane says quietly at one point, turning his wineglass slowly between his fingers. “I think I just… wanted someone who was serious about staying.”

Ilya watches him carefully across the candlelight. “And now you have me,” he says.

The comment should sound arrogant. Instead it lands strangely soft. Shane smiles despite himself. “Apparently.”

Outside, another wave crashes hard enough against the rocks below that the windows rattle faintly.

Ilya speaks less about Alexei than Shane expects. But Shane notices the shape of the omissions anyway. There’s fear there. Not loud fear. Not panicked. Something colder. More controlled than that. The kind of fear that’s been managed for long enough to become part of someone’s daily life. Shane doesn’t push when the conversation edges too close to it. Instead he listens. And Ilya notices that too.

At one point, midway through another glass of wine, Ilya studies him quietly before asking, “Are you always this patient with people?”

“No.”

“Then why with me?”

Shane thinks about it for a second before answering honestly. “You make me want to be.”

That visibly catches Ilya off guard. But only for a second. The rest of the dinner settles into something softer after that. Not lighter exactly, just closer.

By the time they finally leave the restaurant, the rain has eased into mist again. The pathways back toward their suite glisten dark beneath low amber lights, wet cedar and ocean air wrapping around them immediately the second they step outside. Neither of them rushes. Their shoulders brush once, then again. Eventually they stop pretending it’s accidental. Shane notices how quiet Ilya becomes walking beside him. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Hands tucked into his jacket pockets against the cold, curls dampening slightly in the mist.

Beautiful. Again.

Shane is starting to think there may not be a point where that stops happening.

When they reach their room, Shane unlocks the door while Ilya stands slightly behind him, shaking rainwater from his sleeves. The suite glows warm when they step inside. Firelight. Low lamps. The constant distant sound of the ocean beyond the windows.

Shane locks the door behind them automatically and turns back around. Ilya has stopped near the fireplace. For a second neither of them moves. The room suddenly feels smaller than it did earlier. Or maybe they’re just less distant inside it now. Ilya looks at him for a long moment. Not guarded. Not performing. Just looking.

Then he says quietly, “I think maybe this was good idea.”

Shane’s chest tightens unexpectedly. Because twenty-four hours ago this man was a stranger. And now Shane knows the shape of his quieter moods. Knows the difference between his public smile and his real one. Knows he misses his mother’s cooking and hates being recognized unexpectedly and gets calmer around the ocean. Knows the sound of his laugh already.

Shane looks at him. Really looks at him. At the curls falling loose into his eyes. The gold cross resting against warm skin at the opening of his sweater. The softened expression on his face that only seems to appear when nobody else is watching him. And for the first time since all of this started, Shane thinks:

Maybe it was.

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten - Ilya

Ilya wakes first on May fourth. That surprises him.

Mostly because they’ve only known each other for two days, and already Ilya has started expecting to wake up with Shane sitting near the windows holding coffee, half lost in thought. Work probably. Or worry. Or whatever quiet place Shane disappears into when he thinks nobody is looking.

This morning the room is still dim and quiet except for the ocean. Rain drifted through most of the night. The windows are fogged faintly at the corners. Gray light filters softly through the clouds outside, turning the cedar walls warm and muted around them.

Shane is asleep beside him. Ilya stays still for a second longer than necessary just looking at him. He has spent years around beautiful people. Models. Actors. Athletes. Men and women constructed carefully for cameras and campaigns and parties. Beauty usually becomes technical after enough exposure to it. Angles. Lighting. Maintenance.

Shane feels different. Not because he is more beautiful than those people. Because he looks entirely unaware of himself most of the time. Even asleep, there is tension lingering faintly in him. Like he never fully learned how to stop holding himself together. One of Shane’s hands is curled loosely against the pillow between them. Close enough that Ilya could touch it without moving much at all.

He doesn’t. Mostly because he thinks if he starts touching Shane casually now, he may never stop. That feels dangerous already.

Beside him, Shane shifts slightly beneath the blankets with a small exhale. Then his eyes open. For one second he looks disoriented, then he focuses on Ilya and immediately softens. It happens so fast Ilya almost thinks he imagined it.

“Hi,” Shane says quietly, voice rough with sleep.

Ilya smiles before he can stop himself. “Hi.” A pause settles between them. Easy now. Too easy. “You’re staring again,” Ilya says softly.

Shane blinks once. “I think you’re just very noticeable.”

“That is diplomatic way to admit I’m beautiful.”

Shane’s mouth twitches slightly. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But correct.”

That gets him a sleepy laugh. Ilya thinks, not for the first time, that he would probably do almost anything to hear that sound again. Which is objectively insane after forty-eight hours of marriage.

***

The surf lesson is Shane’s idea.

Well. Technically Julia recommended it in the absurdly detailed honeymoon packet she’d prepared for them like some terrifyingly efficient fairy godmother. But Shane is the one who actually suggests they do it over breakfast.

They’re sitting near the windows in the suite while rain drifts softly against the glass. Ilya is still warm from sleep and halfway through his second coffee when Shane says, carefully casual, “There’s a surf school nearby.”

Ilya lowers his mug slowly. “You surf?”

“No.”

“Then why would we do this?”

Shane glances down at the packet beside his plate. “It sounded fun.”

The honesty of that catches Ilya slightly off guard. Fun. Not productive. Not useful. Not strategic. Just fun. Shane looks almost embarrassed admitting it, which immediately makes Ilya want to say yes. Also Shane in a wetsuit sounds objectively worth seeing.

So.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Fine. But if I die in Canadian ocean, you explain it to Cliff.”

“You’d survive longer than me.”

“That’s true.”

The wetsuits themselves are horrible.

Ilya was standing inside a tiny changing room at Cox Bay staring down at himself in disbelief. “This is punishment clothing.”

Outside the half-open door, Shane laughs softly. “You look fine.”

Ilya yanks aggressively at the zipper again. “I feel vacuum sealed.”

Shane is already halfway suited up beside him, black wetsuit pushed down to his waist while he struggles with one sleeve. Unfortunately, the situation is making him look unfairly good. Broad shoulders. Damp hair slightly curling at the ends from the mist outside.  Ilya narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. “You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You are liar.”

“You’re objectively the best-looking person here.”

“That is true,” Ilya agrees immediately. That earns him another startled snort of laughter. The sound has become addictive disturbingly fast.

Eventually they manage to get fully suited, though Shane spends nearly thirty seconds trying unsuccessfully not to stare when Ilya emerges from the changing room properly zipped into the wetsuit at last.

“Oh,” Shane says before he can stop himself.

Ilya raises an eyebrow slowly. “Oh?”

Shane immediately looks away. “Nothing.” Interesting. Very interesting.

The beach is freezing. Not metaphorically. Literally freezing. The second they step onto the sand, wind slams into them hard enough that Ilya physically recoils. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Beside him, Shane is laughing openly now while carrying his surfboard awkwardly beneath one arm. “You’ll adjust.”

“To death maybe.”

The ocean stretches gray and violent beneath low clouds. Waves rolling toward shore in uneven white lines. The air smells sharply of salt and cold water and wet cedar drifting from the trees farther inland. Several actual surfers are already out in the water. Ilya watches one disappear entirely beneath a wave. “This feels unsafe.”

“It’s supervised.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Their instructor introduces himself with the aggressive optimism of someone who genuinely enjoys cold water recreationally. Shane listens immediately with focused attention while balancing the board against his hip.

Ilya watches Shane instead. There’s something unexpectedly attractive about competence to him. Not performative competence. Real competence. The way Shane listens carefully instead of pretending he already knows things. The way he asks questions without embarrassment. The way he immediately tries to understand the mechanics of balancing and positioning before they even touch the water Most people around Ilya spend enormous amounts of energy trying to look impressive. Shane doesn’t seem interested in that at all.

It makes Ilya want to distract him on purpose.

Unfortunately for Shane, surfing turns out to be something Ilya is naturally good at almost immediately. Not perfect. But balanced. Athletic. Instinctive enough that by the third attempt he’s standing briefly before losing control and crashing sideways into the water laughing. Actually laughing. The sound disappears partly beneath the waves and wind, but Shane hears it anyway because he looks over instantly.

For a second he just stares. Then a wave hits him directly in the chest and knocks him completely off his board.

Ilya laughs harder. Shane resurfaces looking personally betrayed by the Pacific Ocean. “You okay?” Ilya calls.

“This is humiliating,” Shane says after his fifth wipeout.

“You are doing amazing.”

“I’m literally underwater half the time.”

“Yes,” Ilya says sympathetically. “But beautifully.”

Shane glares at him through dripping wet hair plastered across his forehead. It is deeply attractive. That has been the problem with this entire trip, honestly. Everything Shane does somehow becomes attractive eventually. The way he gets stubborn when frustrated. The way he refuses to quit even after swallowing half the ocean. The way he pushes his wet hair back with visible annoyance every thirty seconds. The way he laughs harder at himself every hour they spend together.

At one point Shane finally manages to stand properly for almost four full seconds before immediately losing balance again. But this time when he surfaces he’s grinning. Bright and unguarded and visibly proud of himself despite the failure.

Ilya’s chest tightens unexpectedly. Dangerous. Again.

They spend almost two hours in the water before exhaustion finally starts winning. By the end both of them are shivering hard enough that even speaking feels difficult.

Shane collapses dramatically onto the wet sand beside their boards with a groan. “I think my entire body hurts.”

“You are thirty-four now,” Ilya reminds him while dropping down beside him.

“You’re thirty-two.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Youthful and radiant.”

Shane turns his head toward him slowly. “I regret marrying you a little.”

“No, you don’t.” The answer comes too fast. Too certain. Shane blinks once like he noticed that too.

Wind rushes hard across the beach around them. Waves crashing endlessly somewhere beyond. For a second neither of them speaks. Then Shane laughs so suddenly he nearly chokes on seawater. Ilya watches him carefully while pretending not to. The dangerous thing is that Shane becomes prettier when relaxed. Less guarded around the eyes. Easier smiles. Softer mouth.

Ilya notices all of it. Constantly.

***

Back at the hotel, the suite feels warmer than before somehow. Not physically. Different. Their wet clothes end up everywhere almost immediately. Towels draped over chairs. Wetsuits abandoned near the bathroom. Shane’s sweatshirt half hanging off the sofa arm.

It looks lived in now. Like them.

Ilya disappears into the bathroom first to shower. Steam fills the room quickly, fogging the mirrors while ocean-gray light spills through the massive window beside the tub.

When he comes back out wearing gray sweatpants and nothing else, Shane looks up from where he’s sitting on the sofa with room service menus. Then visibly loses his train of thought. Again. Ilya pretends not to notice this time mostly because he enjoys it too much.

“You survived,” Shane says after a second.

“Barely.”

“You were good.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “Naturally gifted.”

“That’s unbearable.”

“I know.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling into the menu. God. The warmth that settles low in Ilya’s chest every time he makes Shane smile is becoming a real issue.

Later, Shane showers too. Ilya sits near the windows afterward listening to the water run while the fireplace crackles softly behind him. The ocean outside looks darker now. Rain moving back in across the horizon.

He should feel anxious. About Montreal. About Alexei. About immigration lawyers and contracts and the fact that he married a man he barely knows because his life started collapsing quietly around him. Instead he feels calm. Calm enough that it unsettles him slightly.

The bathroom door opens. Steam drifts out first. Then Shane. Hair damp. Gray T-shirt clinging slightly at the shoulders. Glasses on now because apparently he only wears contacts when leaving the room. Ilya stares openly this time.

Shane notices immediately. “What?”

“You look very professor suddenly.”

“I’m literally a corporate lawyer.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But now you look like one.” That makes Shane laugh again while toweling his hair.

Ilya thinks suddenly, vividly, irrationally: I want this. Not the arrangement. Not the contract. This. The room. The rain. Shane smiling at him like they already belong to each other a little. The realization hits hard enough that he looks back toward the windows immediately afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

***

The rain starts properly overnight. By morning on May fifth, the entire coastline has disappeared into fog. Ilya wakes tangled halfway into Shane’s side. For one disorienting second he stays there. Warm. Comfortable.

Shane is still asleep, one arm loose around his waist beneath the blankets like his body made the decision sometime during the night without consulting either of them. Ilya should move. Instead he watches rain streak softly against the windows and listens to the ocean and allows himself exactly thirty more seconds. Maybe forty.

Then Shane wakes slowly behind him. There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just aware.

“Morning,” Shane says quietly against the back of his shoulder. The low warmth of his voice sends something dangerous down Ilya’s spine immediately.

“Morning.” Neither of them moves right away. The ocean crashes somewhere below the cliffs. Rain taps steadily against the glass. And for the first time in years, Ilya cannot remember the last time waking beside another person felt peaceful instead of temporary. That realization frightens him enough that he finally pulls away gently, sitting up and dragging a hand through his curls.

Shane watches him carefully from the bed. “You okay?”

The concern in his voice is immediate. Instinctive. Ilya looks at him for a second too long before answering honestly. “Yes.”

Because somehow, impossibly, he is.

After breakfast, Shane suggests the rainforest trails.

“You voluntarily hike in this weather?” Ilya asks from the warmth of the suite while pulling on a sweater.

Shane looks up from tying his boots. “You voluntarily surfed in freezing water yesterday.”

“That was athletic tragedy. Different category.”

Shane laughs quietly. God. Ilya is becoming embarrassingly invested in causing that reaction.

***

The trails through Pacific Rim feel unreal. Everything is green. Not normal green. Violent green. Moss swallowing entire trees. Ferns larger than Ilya’s torso spreading outward beneath cedar branches thick enough to block most of the sky. Rain drips steadily from everything.

The boardwalk beneath their boots stays slick with moisture while fog moves softly through the trees ahead of them. “It smells good,” Ilya says eventually.

Shane glances over. “That sounded surprised.”

“I expected forest to smell like dirt.”

“You’re from Siberia.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “And yet somehow spent very little time thoughtfully smelling trees.” That earns him another laugh. The sound echoes strangely in the quiet forest.

They walk slowly. Not because the trail is difficult. Because neither of them seems interested in rushing through it. At one point Shane stops to read a plaque about the ecosystem while rain beads along the shoulders of his jacket.

Ilya watches him instead of the sign. Again.

Shane notices eventually without looking away from the plaque. “You’re staring.”

“You are educational.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Ilya agrees. “But you like when I look at you.” The words slip out casually. Too casually.

Shane finally turns toward him fully then. Rain taps softly against the hood of his jacket. His hair is damp already, darkened slightly from the moisture in the air. For one second he just looks at Ilya. Then, quieter than before: “Yeah.” The honesty of it hits harder than flirting should. Ilya feels something low in his chest pull unexpectedly tight.

The conversation shifts deeper gradually after that. Not dramatic. Not planned. Just slower and more honest the farther they move through the trees. Maybe because nobody else is around. Maybe because the ocean and rain make the entire world feel far away from them here. Or maybe because they’ve stopped trying so hard to stay careful around each other.

Shane tells him more about the breakup eventually. Not details exactly. Feelings. Which somehow feels worse. “It wasn’t even the ending,” Shane says quietly while they pause near the railing overlooking the water below. “I think it was realizing how long I stayed unhappy before either of us admitted it.”

Rain moves softly across the ocean beneath them. Ilya looks at him carefully. “You loved him.”

“Yes.”

“And he loved you?”

Shane goes quiet for a second. “That’s the complicated part,” he says finally.

Something about the answer hurts unexpectedly to hear. Not jealousy. Something else. The idea of Shane giving that much of himself to someone who eventually stopped holding it carefully. Ilya doesn’t like it. That realization feels strange too. “You deserved better than that,” he says before he can stop himself.

Shane looks over immediately. Rainwater catches briefly against his lashes. For a second he looks genuinely startled. Then softer: “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” The words settle heavily between them. Neither of them moves away from them.

***

They stop at a tiny café afterward mostly to escape the rain. The windows are fogged from warmth inside. Everyone smells faintly like wet jackets and coffee. Soft music hums somewhere overhead beneath the low murmur of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.

The place is crowded enough that people keep brushing past them with dripping umbrellas and flushed cheeks from the cold outside. Ilya likes it immediately. Not because it’s glamorous. Because nobody here seems interested in performing for anyone else. People are damp. Tired. Quiet. Existing.

Shane pushes his hood back as they step inside, hair slightly flattened from the rain. It does something deeply unfair to Ilya’s concentration. “You’re staring again,” Shane says automatically while scanning the menu board overhead.

“You look wet.”

“That’s because it’s raining.”

“Hm.”

The girl behind the register smiles politely at them. Shane orders first. “Tea, please.”

Ilya turns toward him slowly. “Tea.”

Shane glances over. “Yes?”

“You drink tea voluntarily?”

“Yes?”

“You are becoming more Canadian every hour.”

Shane deadpans, “I was born here.”

Still, he’s smiling faintly into the cup afterward when they move aside to wait for their drinks. Ilya watches him wrap both hands around the paper cup automatically for warmth. The domesticity of it hits strangely hard. Not dramatic. Just intimate in small ways that keep catching Ilya off guard.

The barista calls Ilya’s name wrong twice before giving up entirely and handing him the coffee with visible relief. “Your country struggles with me,” Ilya says gravely as they move toward an empty table near the windows.

“My country is trying its best.”

“It is failing.”

Shane laughs softly again. That sound. God. Ilya is becoming addicted to it at an alarming speed. They settle into the booth beside the window while rain streaks steadily outside. The glass rattles faintly every time wind pushes harder against the building.

People move past outside in blurred shapes beneath umbrellas. The ocean beyond town has disappeared entirely into fog. Ilya stretches one leg carefully beneath the table to avoid brushing Shane accidentally. Then Shane’s foot bumps his anyway. Not hard, just there. A small point of warmth against his ankle beneath layers of wet denim and heavy boots. Neither of them moves immediately. The warmth of it settles low and dangerous inside Ilya’s chest.

Shane notices the pause too. His eyes flick downward once before returning carefully to his tea. Interesting. Very interesting.

They talk quietly after that. Work first. Easy subjects. Shane explaining a merger case he handled last year with the exact same focused seriousness he applied to surfing instructions yesterday. Ilya listens mostly because he likes watching Shane talk when he forgets to monitor himself.

He becomes more expressive. His hands move more. His mouth softens around the edges when he gets interested in something. “You really love your job,” Ilya says eventually.

Shane looks mildly surprised by the observation. “Yeah.”

“Even though it makes you insane.”

“It only makes me partially insane.”

“That’s lawyer optimism.” Shane smiles into his tea again. Outside, rainwater slides endlessly down the windows in silver lines.

They move on to travel after that. Ilya tells him about Milan and Paris and spending three days in Tokyo so jetlagged once that he accidentally attended the wrong fitting entirely.

Shane nearly chokes laughing. “What happened?”

“I did not realize until halfway through.”

“What did you do?”

“I committed fully.”

“You modeled clothing for the wrong designer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s psychotic.”

“It worked surprisingly well.”

Shane’s laugh comes bright and sudden enough that several people glance briefly toward them. Ilya watches the reaction immediately. The way Shane’s face opens when he laughs for real. The way he ducks his head slightly afterward like he’s still unused to taking up that kind of space. Dangerous. Everything about this man is becoming dangerous. The conversation shifts more slowly after that. Families. Childhoods. The shape of the lives they built before they collided into each other three days ago and somehow rewired everything unexpectedly.

At one point Shane asks carefully, “Do you miss Russia?”

The question stills something inside Ilya immediately. Not because Shane asked badly. Because nobody asks softly anymore. Usually people ask politically. Curiously. Performatively. They ask because they want an opinion piece or a headline or an explanation. Shane sounds like he actually wants the answer.

“Yes,” Ilya says after a moment. Shane waits quietly. No interruption. No assumption. So Ilya continues. “I miss pieces of it.” He stares down at the coffee in his hands while steam curls softly upward between them. “Language. Winter. My grandmother’s apartment.” A small smile pulls briefly at the corner of his mouth before fading again. “She used to make pelmeni from scratch every Sunday. Entire apartment smelled like dough for two days afterward.”

Shane watches him carefully across the table. “You cooked with her?”

“Yes.” Ilya huffs softly through his nose. “Very badly.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. Alexei was good at everything domestic immediately. I was decorative child.” That gets a quiet laugh out of Shane. Warm again. Familiar now. The realization unsettles Ilya slightly.

A pause settles between them afterward while rain taps steadily against the windows. “Sometimes,” Ilya says more quietly, “I miss version of myself that existed there before…” He gestures vaguely. Before fame. Before fear. Before every public interaction became calculation. Before his life became something that needed managing carefully at all times.

Shane’s expression softens almost immediately. “You don’t have to explain the rest if you don’t want to.” Relief hits hard enough that Ilya almost laughs. Because of course Shane would say exactly that instead of pushing harder.

Instead of trying to earn more intimacy than he’s being offered. “You are very patient person,” Ilya says softly.

“No,” Shane says immediately. “I’m really not.”

“You are with me.”

The answer doesn’t come right away. Outside, rain slides endlessly down the café windows while soft music hums somewhere behind the counter. Someone drops dishes in the kitchen. The entire café laughs collectively for a second before settling again. Shane turns his tea cup slowly between both hands. Then finally says quietly: “I want to get this right.”

Ilya goes completely still. The sincerity in Shane is devastating sometimes because it never feels manipulated. Never polished for effect. Just honest.

And suddenly Ilya understands something terrifying very clearly: Shane is trying. Really trying. Not to survive the arrangement. Not to tolerate him. To build something. The realization leaves him strangely breathless for a second.

He looks away first. Outside, fog swallows the coastline entirely. Inside, Shane’s foot still rests lightly against his beneath the table like neither of them has remembered to move.

***

By the time they return to the suite, both of them are damp again despite umbrellas. The room glows warm immediately around them. Fireplace lit, soft lamps on. Ocean invisible beyond the darkening windows except for movement and sound.

Ilya peels off his wet jacket near the door while Shane disappears briefly into the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s carrying two hotel blankets. “You stole those.”

“I borrowed them.”

“Very criminal behavior for lawyer.” Shane rolls his eyes and tosses one toward him anyway. They end up sitting on the floor near the coffee table afterward because neither of them feels like moving all the way to the sofa. The blankets wrap around both of them loosely while the storm worsens outside. At some point Shane stretches his legs out beside him with a quiet groan.

“You’re sore.”

“I got hit by the Pacific Ocean repeatedly yesterday.”

“You were beautiful while suffering.”

“That sentence should concern me.”

“It should.”

Shane laughs quietly again. The sound settles warm and familiar inside Ilya now. Dangerously familiar.

For a while they just sit there listening to the storm. Rain lashes harder against the windows. Wind pushes through the trees outside with a low rushing sound beneath the constant crash of the ocean. The fire throws soft amber light across the room, flickering against the cedar walls.

Shane absently turns his wedding ring around his finger while staring toward the windows. Then pauses. A small furrow appears between his eyebrows.

“What?” Ilya asks.

Shane holds his hand closer to the firelight, squinting slightly at the inside of the band. “I forgot these had inscriptions.”

“You forgot immediately after wedding?”

“It’s been an intense few days.” Ilya smiles faintly and shifts closer automatically to look. Shane turns the ring again slowly. The second he sees the Cyrillic, his expression changes from distracted curiosity to visible confusion. “…Why is this about a tooth?”

Ilya blinks. Then stares at him. “You know Russian?”

Shane looks up immediately. “A little.”

“A little?”

“I have a Russian client,” Shane says carefully. “I picked some things up.”

Ilya continues staring at him. Outside, thunder rumbles faintly somewhere out over the water.

“You never mentioned this.”

“You never asked.”

“You let me say things around you in Russian.”

“You mostly insulted the weather.”

“That is private cultural expression.”

Shane laughs softly again, turning the ring once more between his fingers. “Seriously though. Why does my wedding ring say tooth promise?”

Ilya groans immediately and drops his head briefly back against the sofa. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You translated directly.”

“Yes?”

“It does not work directly.”

Shane looks delighted by this development now, which is honestly rude considering Ilya is trying to preserve at least some dignity. “It literally says ‘I give tooth,’” Shane says.

“Yes, technically.”

“That’s insane.”

“It means like…” Ilya gestures vaguely with one hand, searching for the English phrasing. “Absolute certainty. Cross my heart.”

“A tooth-based certainty.”

“You are making this worse on purpose.”

“I’m trying to understand your culture.”

Ilya narrows his eyes at him. Shane’s smile widens slightly. God. The warmth in Ilya’s chest every time Shane looks genuinely happy is becoming unbearable. “It’s idiom,” Ilya says finally. “You say when you are completely serious about something.”

Shane glances back down at the ring. The firelight catches softly against the gold band between his fingers. “You put ‘absolute certainty’ inside my wedding ring?” The teasing in his voice fades slightly toward the end. Something quieter underneath it now.

Ilya suddenly feels strangely exposed. “Yes,” he says after a moment.

Shane looks over at him fully then. No joking this time. Just looking. The storm presses hard against the windows around them. Rain. Ocean. Wind moving endlessly through the dark outside. Inside, the room feels small and warm and dangerously intimate. “You picked it yourself?” Shane asks quietly.

Ilya nods once. “I thought maybe…” He exhales softly through his nose. “I thought maybe you would need reminder eventually.”

“Reminder of what?”

“That I was serious.” The words settle heavily between them.

Shane goes very still. Ilya suddenly becomes acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth beneath the blankets, their shoulders nearly touching, the firelight flickering across Shane’s face, the fact that they’ve known each other for less than a week and somehow this already feels terrifyingly real. Shane looks back down at the ring again slowly. His thumb brushes once across the inscription. Then, softer than before: “That’s actually kind of romantic.”

Ilya laughs under his breath immediately, relieved enough to feel lightheaded for a second. “You are impossible.”

“You married me.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Very poor judgment.” Shane smiles again. But this one is different. Smaller. Warmer. The kind of smile people usually only wear when they’ve forgotten to guard themselves. Ilya watches it happen and thinks, suddenly and with complete certainty:

This is going to hurt him if I’m not careful.

They sit there for a long time after that. Talking less. Existing more. The fire crackles softly beside them while rain lashes against the windows hard enough to blur the ocean entirely from view. Eventually Shane leans his head back against the sofa behind them with a tired exhale. His shoulder brushes lightly against Ilya’s. Neither of them moves away.

And sometime between one wave crashing against the shore and the next, Ilya realizes he no longer feels like he’s pretending to be Shane’s husband. Which would probably frighten him more if it didn’t also feel so much like relief.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven - Shane

Shane wakes on May sixth to rain and warmth. For one disorienting second, he thinks he’s alone. Then he becomes aware of the weight against his side. Ilya is half asleep beside him, one arm loose across Shane’s waist beneath the blankets, curls falling into his face while the storm moves softly against the windows beyond them.

Shane goes very still. Not because he wants to move away. But because he doesn’t. That feels significantly more dangerous.

The room is dim with early morning light. Gray ocean barely visible through rain-streaked glass. The fireplace burned low overnight, leaving only soft residual warmth lingering through the suite.

Ilya shifts slightly closer in his sleep. Shane’s chest tightens immediately.

Jesus Christ. They’ve known each other for less than a week. And somehow Shane already knows: the exact shape of Ilya’s laugh. The difference between his public smile and his real one. How quiet he gets when he’s actually comfortable. The fact that he steals blankets unconsciously and apologizes automatically afterward. This is either deeply romantic or catastrophic. Possibly both.

Eventually Ilya wakes slowly against him. There’s a brief pause while awareness settles across his face. Then: “Hi.” His voice is rough with sleep.

Shane’s entire nervous system reacts instantly like a traitor. “Hi.” Neither of them moves. Rain taps softly against the windows. The ocean crashes somewhere below the cliffs. And for one suspended moment, Shane feels something he hasn’t felt in years.

Peace.

Not excitement. Not infatuation. Peace. It unsettles him more than anything else has.

***

The boat ride to Hot Springs Cove happens under heavy gray skies. The ocean looks enormous. Cold mist hangs low over the water while the boat cuts through waves rough enough that Ilya grabs Shane’s sleeve once automatically during a particularly sharp turn. Neither of them comments on it afterward.

Shane likes this version of closeness best so far. Not performative. Not careful. Instinctive.

The farther they move from Tofino, the quieter everything becomes. Dense forest pressing against the coastline. Black rocks slick with rain. Occasional glimpses of seals stretched lazily along the shore.

Ilya stands beside him near the railing for most of the ride wearing one of Shane’s sweaters beneath his rain jacket because he got cold earlier and Shane handed it over without thinking.

Now Shane can’t stop thinking about it. The sleeves are slightly too long on him. The realization does something deeply embarrassing to Shane’s emotional stability.

“You’re staring again,” Ilya says without looking away from the water.

“I’m noticing.”

“That sounds psychological.”

“You started it.”

“That’s true.”

Wind pushes damp curls across Ilya’s forehead. He looks softer here somehow, less sharpened by attention. Shane is becoming dangerously attached to seeing this version of him.

***

The walk to the springs feels unreal. The boat leaves them at a narrow dock surrounded almost entirely by rainforest. Mist hangs low over the water while the engine noise fades behind them until there’s nothing left except waves and rain and the distant cry of something overhead Shane can’t identify.

The boardwalk trail disappears immediately into the trees. Everything is wet. Not unpleasantly, just completely. The air itself feels saturated. Cedar and salt and earth so dense Shane can almost taste it every time he breathes in.

Ilya walks beside him with his hood pushed back despite the rain drifting through the branches overhead. His curls are already damp again, catching silver where the light filters weakly through the canopy.

“You look very dramatic here,” Shane says eventually.

Ilya glances over. “In forest?”

“Yes.”

“That feels racist against Russians somehow.”

Shane laughs quietly under his breath. The sound disappears quickly into the trees around them. The farther they walk, the quieter the world becomes. Not silent. Muted.

Rain tapping softly against leaves. Water moving somewhere below the cliffs beyond the forest. Their footsteps echoing hollowly against the wooden boards beneath them.

Steam begins appearing gradually between the trees ahead. At first Shane thinks it’s fog. Then the smell changes. Mineral heat drifting through cold ocean air. Ilya notices it too. “Oh.”

The reaction makes Shane smile automatically. By the time they finally reach the springs, steam curls visibly upward through dark volcanic rock while the Pacific crashes violently below the cliffs beyond them.

The contrast feels impossible. Cold rain. Hot water. Wild ocean. Dense green forest. Nothing about it looks entirely real.

When they step into the springs, the heat feels almost violent against the cold air. Shane exhales sharply as water closes around his waist.

Beside him, Ilya groans immediately while sinking deeper into the water. “Oh my god.” Shane laughs softly and leans back against the smooth rock behind him. The ocean stretches beyond the pools in endless gray waves crashing against black cliffs below. Steam curls around them in soft white clouds. Rain drifts lightly through the heat, cooling Shane’s face while the water keeps the rest of him unbearably warm.

Nobody else is close enough to matter. For a while neither of them says much, just existing there together. Warm water. Cold air. Rain threading softly through the steam. Ilya eventually stretches his arms along the rock behind him with a quiet sigh, eyes half closed now. The heat has softened him visibly. No tension in his shoulders. No careful awareness of who might be looking at him. Just Ilya.

Shane finds himself watching the line of water sliding slowly down his throat before forcing himself to look back toward the ocean instead. This is becoming unsustainable.

“You’re happier here,” Ilya says eventually.

The observation catches Shane off guard. “What?”

“Here,” Ilya says quietly. “Tofino. With no work.”

Shane exhales slowly. The steam makes everything feel strangely private. Like the world narrowed temporarily down to the two of them and the sound of the ocean below.

“I don’t know how not to work most of the time.”

“I noticed.”

“That obvious?”

“Yes.”

Shane smiles faintly despite himself. The thing is, Ilya says observations like that so casually sometimes. No judgment in them. Just attention. Shane isn’t used to being noticed carefully. He’s used to being relied on. Admired professionally. Needed strategically. Not seen. He looks down at the water for a second before answering honestly. “I think I forgot what it felt like to relax around another person.” The words settle heavier than he intended.

Across from him, Ilya goes quiet. Not uncomfortable. Thinking. Rain taps softly against the surface of the springs between them. Then, softly: “And now?”

Shane looks up. Steam drifts between them while gray ocean stretches endlessly beyond the cliffs below. The answer feels terrifyingly easy. “I’m trying not to think too hard about it.”

That gets a small smile out of Ilya. Warm. Real. The kind Shane has started recognizing immediately now. “You are very bad at not thinking.”

“That’s fair.”

“You think professionally.”

“I do most things professionally.”

“Yes,” Ilya says dryly. “Even panic.”

Shane laughs hard enough that water splashes lightly against the rocks. The sound echoes strangely against the ocean below them. And suddenly Ilya is laughing too. Bright and open and completely unguarded. Not the polished laugh Shane first saw at the wedding reception. Not the charming public version. This one is quieter somehow. Realer. Shane watches him and feels it happen all at once.

Not attraction. That part happened immediately. Something worse.

Fondness.

Real, terrifying fondness settling deep inside his chest before he has any idea how to stop it. Ilya’s laughter fades gradually into a smile while steam drifts around him in soft white curls. Then his expression shifts slightly. Softer now. More thoughtful.

“What?” Shane asks quietly.

Ilya studies him for a second before answering. “You look different when you’re relaxed.”

Shane huffs softly through his nose. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But now I know it better.” The words land somewhere dangerously low in Shane’s chest. Because that’s the problem. They do know each other better now. Enough that Shane recognizes Ilya’s quieter moods immediately. Enough that he can tell when Ilya is overwhelmed before he says anything. Enough that waking up beside him already feels normal in ways that should probably concern both of them.

Rain drifts heavier briefly through the steam. Ilya reaches up automatically to wipe water from his eyelashes. Shane’s gaze catches briefly on the gold wedding band visible against damp skin where his hand rests near the edge of the spring.

Married.

The word still feels surreal sometimes. But less than it did before. Which might honestly be the bigger problem.

“I think,” Ilya says quietly after a while, staring back out toward the ocean, “I expected this to feel more temporary.”

Shane goes still. The ocean crashes hard against the cliffs below them. Steam curls upward between their shoulders. “What does it feel like now?” Shane asks before he can stop himself.

Ilya turns toward him slowly. Rain catches faintly in his curls. Water beads along his throat and shoulders from the springs. His expression is open in a way Shane still isn’t entirely used to seeing.

“Dangerous,” Ilya says honestly.

Shane’s breath catches slightly. Because yes. Exactly that. And neither of them looks away.

***

They fall asleep accidentally after returning to the suite. The rain has intensified again by then. Heavy enough that the ocean beyond the windows disappears entirely into gray. Shane remembers lying down “for a minute.” Then waking hours later tangled halfway beneath one of the hotel blankets with Ilya asleep against his shoulder.

The room is darker now. Fireplace glowing softly nearby. Outside, waves crash endlessly through the storm. Ilya shifts slightly beside him as he wakes, still disoriented with sleep. “Did we die?”

Shane smiles faintly. “I don’t think so.”

“Disappointing.”

“You’re very dramatic after naps.”

“I am dramatic always.”

True. Shane brushes damp curls carefully back from Ilya’s forehead before he fully thinks through the decision. Both of them go still immediately afterward. Shane’s hand lingers briefly near his face. Ilya looks at him quietly. The air between them changes all at once. Not awkward. Worse.

Intimate.

Shane feels suddenly aware of everything: the warmth beneath the blankets, the sound of rain, the firelight flickering softly across Ilya’s skin, the fact that they are married, the fact that he wants this marriage to become real badly enough now to frighten himself.

Ilya’s gaze drops briefly toward Shane’s mouth. Then back up.

“Shane,” he says softly.

And Shane kisses him before he can overthink it. Slowly. Carefully. Not tentative exactly, intentional. Ilya makes a quiet sound against his mouth that nearly destroys Shane instantly.

The kiss deepens gradually after that. Warm and unhurried beneath the sound of the storm. No performance. No pressure. Just the terrifying realization that kissing Ilya feels less like something new and more like something Shane somehow already missed before it even happened.

***

May seventh feels different immediately. Lighter. Not because anything dramatic changed overnight. But because the uncertainty did.

Shane wakes to sunlight for the first time all week. Actual sunlight. Thin gold light spilling across the blankets and cedar walls while the ocean glitters pale blue beyond the windows instead of gray. Beside him, Ilya is sprawled across the bed stealing at least seventy percent of the blankets.

Shane watches him for a minute before saying, “You’re a menace.”

One eye opens slowly. “Good morning to you also.”

“You stole all the blankets.”

“Yes.”

“At least you admit it.”

“I believe in honesty within marriage.”

Shane laughs quietly. The ease of it surprises him less now. That might be the most dangerous part.

They miss breakfast entirely. Neither of them seems particularly concerned about it. Instead they wander through town slowly beneath clear skies while Tofino finally looks brighter and more alive after days of rain. Ilya buys expensive coffee and complains about Canadian pastries. Shane buys him another pastry anyway five minutes later.

“You are enabling me.”

“I think that ship sailed when I legally married you.”

“That’s fair.”

People still recognize Ilya occasionally. Shane notices the tension every time before Ilya smooths it away. But today it fades faster. Partly because Shane has learned the signs now. Partly because every time it happens, Shane instinctively steps slightly closer beside him afterward without really thinking about it.

The third time it happens, Ilya notices. “You do that intentionally?”

“What?”

“Protective lawyer hovering.”

Shane looks mildly horrified. “I’m not hovering.”

“You absolutely are.”

“That seems unlikely.”

Ilya smiles slowly. “It’s little hot, actually.”

Shane nearly walks directly into a parked bicycle. Ilya laughs so hard he has to grab Shane’s sleeve to steady himself. And standing there in the middle of a tiny street in Tofino with sunlight finally breaking through the clouds and Ilya still laughing beside him, Shane realizes something quietly devastating:

He is already happier here with Ilya than he was during the last year of his previous relationship. The thought lands softly. Then all at once.

They spend most of the afternoon wandering without much direction. That feels new, too. Shane usually moves through cities with purpose. Meetings. Reservations. Schedules carefully structured down to fifteen-minute increments because his life functions better when everything has somewhere specific to be. With Ilya, the day keeps unfolding accidentally.

They stop inside a bookstore because Ilya sees a dog sleeping near the entrance and immediately abandons the conversation mid-sentence to crouch beside it. Shane watches this happen with helpless fondness.

“You like dogs,” he says as Ilya scratches gently behind the animal’s ears.

“I contain multitudes.”

The old woman behind the counter smiles knowingly at Shane like she’s already decided they’re in love. Which. Complicated. Ilya eventually buys nothing except postcards he claims are “for aesthetic purposes” despite refusing to elaborate further.

Later they end up near the harbor again beneath pale afternoon sunlight while fishing boats drift slowly against the docks. Ilya steals Shane’s sunglasses at some point and absolutely refuses to give them back.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I look powerful.”

“You look like divorced European businessman.”

“That is still powerful.”

Shane laughs despite himself. The frightening thing is how easy everything feels now. Not effortless exactly, intentional still, but easy in the ways that matter.

Conversation no longer feels cautious. Silence no longer feels uncertain. Shane has stopped monitoring every interaction for signs they’re moving too fast because the truth is they already moved too fast the second they signed marriage documents three days after meeting. Now they’re just catching up emotionally to something legally irreversible. Which should probably feel more alarming than it does.

***

By early evening they return to the suite carrying takeout containers and far too many pastries because Ilya apparently believes desserts should be ordered in multiples “for emotional support.” The room glows gold in the lowering sunlight. For the first time all week the windows aren’t gray with rain. The ocean stretches blue beyond the trees while late sunlight catches across the water in long bright streaks.

Ilya immediately kicks off his shoes near the door. Shane watches him move through the room automatically now. Comfortable. Familiar already. Their room. The thought lands quietly, then stays.

Ilya wanders toward the windows carrying one of the pastry boxes while Shane sets the rest of the food near the wet bar.

“You’re smiling again,” Ilya says without turning around.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Shane realizes belatedly that he probably is. Which feels embarrassing somehow. He changes the subject immediately.

“You stole my sunglasses.”

“They suit me better.”

“That’s objectively false.”

Ilya finally turns around then, still wearing the sunglasses despite the fact that the sun is actively setting. “Counterpoint,” he says seriously. “I am prettier than you.”

Shane stares at him for a second, then laughs hard enough that he has to brace himself against the counter briefly. Ilya’s expression softens instantly at the sound. There it is again. That feeling. Warm and dangerous and growing steadily harder to ignore.

***

Dinner happens cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table because neither of them wants to bother being formal anymore. The balcony door is cracked open slightly despite the cool air outside. Ocean sounds drift softly through the room beneath quiet music from someone’s phone Shane can’t remember turning on. At some point Ilya steals food directly off Shane’s plate.

“You ordered your own.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees calmly while eating Shane’s fries anyway.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

The words slip out casually. Thoughtlessly. Silence lands immediately afterward. Ilya freezes mid-bite. Shane’s heart stops so abruptly it actually hurts. The ocean crashes softly outside. Inside, the room suddenly feels very small.

Ilya lowers the fry slowly. “I meant—”

“I know.” But Shane’s voice sounds quieter than usual. Because the problem is: some reckless traitorous part of him reacted before his brain could. Not panic. Hope.

Ilya looks at him carefully from across the floor. Then, softer: “You got weirdly calm just now.”

Shane lets out a startled laugh despite himself. “What?”

“Most people would panic.”

“Oh, I’m panicking.”

“No,” Ilya says quietly. “You’re not.”

Shane looks down briefly at the food between them. The firelight flickers softly across the room now that evening has fully settled outside. And because apparently he’s committed to emotional self-destruction this week, he answers honestly. “I think I didn’t expect it to feel this real this fast.”

The confession settles heavily between them. Across from him, Ilya goes very still. Shane can practically see the moment the words land. Neither of them looks away.

Then slowly, carefully, Ilya sets his plate aside and shifts closer across the carpet until his knee bumps lightly against Shane’s. Warm. Intentional.

“I know,” Ilya says quietly. The gentleness in his voice nearly undoes Shane completely. Because there’s no fear in it. No hesitation. Just understanding.

Outside, dusk settles fully across the coastline while waves move endlessly beyond the windows. Inside, Shane looks at the man he married less than a week ago and realizes with absolute terrifying certainty that he wants this to last longer than the arrangement was ever supposed to. And judging by the expression on Ilya’s face, he may not be alone in that anymore.

***

By the time they finish eating, the room has gone fully dark except for the fireplace and the low lamps near the sofa. The remains of dinner sit abandoned across the coffee table between them. Empty takeout containers. Half-finished wine. One pastry box still open because Ilya insisted they needed “dessert options.”

Outside, the ocean moves in long silver-black lines beneath the windows. Shane is stretched out against the sofa now with one leg bent loosely beneath him while Ilya sits cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, absently turning his wineglass slowly between his fingers. Neither of them seems interested in cleaning up yet. The room feels too warm for movement. Too settled.

Music hums quietly from Shane’s phone somewhere behind them. Something instrumental and soft enough to disappear beneath the sound of the ocean every few seconds.

Ilya glances toward it eventually. “You listen to very dramatic music for someone pretending not to have feelings.”

Shane snorts softly. “You own silk shirts.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “Because I am brave.”

That gets another laugh out of him. God. The ease of it still catches Shane off guard sometimes. Ilya looks up immediately when Shane laughs now. Like it matters to him. Like he’s collecting the sound carefully. The realization settles warm somewhere beneath Shane’s ribs. Dangerous again, always dangerous.

For a while they fall quiet. Not awkward. Just tired in the comfortable way that follows a full day spent entirely with another person. Shane watches the firelight flicker across the room while Ilya leans his head back briefly against the sofa cushion near Shane’s knee. The movement is casual enough that Shane almost misses it. Almost.

He looks down automatically. Ilya’s curls brush lightly against his leg through the fabric of his sweatpants. The contact feels strangely intimate. More intimate somehow than kissing had. Because this isn’t deliberate. It’s trust. The realization hits Shane hard enough that he looks back toward the windows immediately afterward.

Outside, moonlight catches faintly against the ocean. Inside, the fire cracks softly. Then quietly: “Can I ask you something?”

Shane looks back down. Ilya’s expression has gone thoughtful again. “Sure.”

A pause. Then: “Were you happy before?”

The question catches Shane completely off guard. “With my ex?”

“With your life.”

Shane goes still. Ilya looks suddenly uncertain afterward, like he regrets asking already. “You don’t have to answer,” he says quickly.

“No.” Shane exhales slowly. “It’s okay.” The problem is he doesn’t actually know immediately. That probably answers the question by itself. He looks down at his hands for a second before speaking. “I think I got very good at functioning. Ilya stays quiet beside him. “I liked my work. I liked my apartment. I liked my routine.” Shane huffs softly through his nose. “Everything looked correct from the outside.”

“But?”

Shane stares toward the fire. “But I think I stopped noticing whether I was actually enjoying my life.”

The honesty of the admission leaves the room quieter afterward. The ocean crashes softly below the cliffs outside. Beside him, Ilya’s fingers still around the stem of his wineglass. “I know that feeling,” he says eventually.

Shane looks over. Ilya’s gaze stays fixed on the fire now instead of him. “You wake up one day and realize your life became something you manage instead of something you live inside.”

The words land directly in Shane’s chest. Because yes. Exactly that.

For a second neither of them speaks. Then Shane says quietly: “I don’t feel like that here.”

Ilya finally looks up then. Shane can see the exact moment the words affect him. The softening around his eyes. The careful stillness afterward.

“You know,” Ilya says after a moment, “this is longest I’ve stayed in one place in almost two years.”

Shane blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It was glamorous exhaustion.”

“That’s still exhaustion.”

Ilya smiles faintly. Then quieter: “I forgot what routines feel like.”

The statement does something strange to Shane’s chest. Because suddenly he can picture it too easily: Ilya in his kitchen in Montreal. Ilya stealing his coffee. Ilya complaining dramatically about weather every morning for the rest of their lives. The images arrive so naturally they frighten him slightly. And worse: they make him happy.

Shane looks down before Ilya can read too much of that on his face. Unfortunately, Ilya notices anyway. “You’re thinking very loudly.”

“That’s unfortunate for me.”

“Yes,” Ilya says softly. “Usually.”

The warmth in his voice makes Shane look back at him again. Ilya is watching him openly now. No teasing. No performance. Just looking. The firelight catches gold against his cross and wedding ring while shadows move softly across his face. Shane feels suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of how close they are. One movement and he could touch him. The thought lingers too long.

Ilya notices that too. Slowly, carefully, he sets the wineglass down on the table beside him. Then he shifts closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant, either. Intentional.

His hand settles lightly against Shane’s knee first. Warm through the fabric. Shane’s breath catches slightly. Neither of them looks away now.

“Tell me something true,” Ilya says quietly.

The request settles somewhere deep inside him. Shane thinks for a second. Then answers honestly before he can lose the nerve. “I don’t want this week to end.” The vulnerability in the confession leaves him exposed immediately afterward. Because it isn’t really about the trip. They both know that.

Ilya’s expression softens almost painfully. “Shane.” Just his name. Quiet enough that it feels intimate.

Shane reaches for him first this time. His hand sliding carefully along the side of Ilya’s neck. Thumb brushing lightly against damp curls near his ear. Ilya leans into the touch instantly. The unconsciousness of it nearly undoes Shane completely.

Then Shane kisses him. Slowly at first. Warm and lingering and already familiar now. Ilya shifts closer immediately, one hand bracing against the sofa beside Shane while the other curls lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss deepens gradually. No urgency. Just closeness. Firelight flickering softly around them while the ocean moves endlessly beyond the windows.

At some point Ilya climbs up onto the sofa half into Shane’s lap without either of them fully deciding to move there. Shane’s hands settle instinctively at his waist. Warm skin beneath soft fabric. Ilya kisses him like he’s learning him by memory already. Carefully. Thoroughly. Like he wants to keep this.

Eventually they pull apart slowly, both quieter afterward. Ilya rests his forehead briefly against Shane’s. The room feels impossibly small around them now. “You know what problem is?” Ilya murmurs softly.

“What?”

“I think maybe I’m starting to trust you.”

The honesty of it catches Shane entirely off guard. He feels something tighten sharply in his chest. Not fear exactly. Responsibility. Because Shane understands suddenly how serious that statement actually is coming from him.

Slowly, Shane brushes his thumb once along Ilya’s jaw. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. And the terrifying part is that he never considered leaving in the first place.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve - Ilya

May eighth arrives soft and gray again. Not storming anymore. Just mist hanging low over the water while the ocean moves quietly beyond the windows. The room is dim with early morning light. Pale silver filtering through the curtains. The fireplace burned out sometime during the night, leaving only lingering warmth trapped in the cedar walls and blankets around them.

Ilya wakes slowly. At first he doesn’t move because he’s warm and comfortable and half asleep enough that his brain hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Then he becomes aware of the weight around his waist.

Shane.

One arm wrapped loosely around him beneath the blankets, face buried halfway into the pillow behind Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya goes still for a second. The realization still feels surreal occasionally: this man is his husband. Not temporary. Not theoretical. Not a strategy anymore.

Real.

Real enough now that Ilya can already picture the shape of Shane’s apartment in Montreal despite never having seen it. Bookshelves. Soft lighting. Expensive coffee machine. Probably blankets folded with terrifying precision. Real enough that sometime during the night he apparently rolled fully against Shane’s side and stayed there unconsciously until morning.

Shane is warm even in sleep. Warm hands. Warm chest. Warmth everywhere, honestly. It’s deeply inconvenient. Ilya studies him quietly for a moment. Shane looks younger asleep somehow. Less controlled around the edges. Hair a mess against the pillow. Mouth relaxed. One knee tangled loosely against Ilya’s beneath the blankets. There’s something terrifyingly intimate about seeing someone before they’ve put themselves back together for the day.

Ilya realizes suddenly that he likes this version of Shane almost best. The one nobody else gets.

Outside, waves move softly against the shore below the cliffs. Inside, the suite feels suspended somehow. Quiet enough that Ilya can hear Shane breathing steadily behind him. He shifts slightly, careful not to wake him. Immediately Shane makes a soft sound of protest and tightens one arm automatically around his waist.

Ilya freezes. Then slowly smiles into the pillow despite himself. “Oh,” he murmurs quietly. “You are clingy actually.”

Shane opens one eye slowly. “You’re talking too early.”

“You’re holding me hostage.”

“You seemed comfortable.”

“That is not legal defense.”

Shane’s mouth twitches faintly before he closes his eyes again. But he doesn’t let go. If anything, he settles closer. Ilya feels warmth spread embarrassingly through his chest. “This is very possessive behavior,” he says softly after another moment.

“Mm.”

“Shane.”

A sleepy pause. Then, muffled against the pillow: “You’re warm.”

The honesty of the answer catches Ilya completely off guard. No teasing. No flirtation. Just sleepy sincerity. God. That might actually kill him eventually. “You are unbelievable in mornings,” Ilya mutters quietly.

“Go back to sleep.”

“You’re trapping me.”

“You complain constantly for someone not trying very hard to leave.”

That makes Ilya laugh softly before he can stop himself. The sound seems to pull Shane farther awake gradually. He shifts behind him slightly, blinking slower now while gray light spreads across the room around them. For a second neither of them says anything.

Then Shane’s hand moves absentmindedly once against Ilya’s waist beneath the blankets, thumb brushing lightly through the fabric of his T-shirt. The touch is unconscious. Casual. And somehow more intimate than half the kisses they’ve shared in the last two days. Because this isn’t performed. It isn’t intentional. It’s comfort.

Ilya realizes suddenly that Shane touches him constantly now. Like his body already expects closeness. Already reaches automatically. The realization settles somewhere dangerously soft inside him.

Outside, fog drifts low across the beach beyond the windows. Inside, Shane finally opens both eyes properly and squints toward the light. “What time is it?”

“Very early.”

“You’re awake voluntarily?”

“I wanted to judge you while unconscious.”

“That’s fair.”

Shane’s voice is still rough with sleep. Ilya loves it immediately. Another deeply inconvenient development. Shane shifts again carefully, propping himself slightly higher against the pillows behind them while still refusing to fully let go of him.

“You know,” Ilya says thoughtfully, “this would alarm you if someone described it to you week ago.”

“What?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely beneath the blankets. “Domestic hostage situation.”

Shane huffs softly through his nose. Then quieter: “No.”

Ilya turns slightly toward him. Shane’s expression is still sleepy but serious underneath it now. “I wanted this,” he says simply.

The words land heavily in the quiet room. Because that’s the thing Ilya keeps forgetting: Shane never approached any of this halfway. Not the marriage. Not the honeymoon. Not them. He committed immediately. Calmly. Completely.

The realization still frightens Ilya sometimes because he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of certainty yet. People usually hesitate with him eventually. They like him. Want him. Admire him. But Shane chose him like it was obvious from the beginning.

The thought settles painfully warm beneath Ilya’s ribs. He looks away first under the excuse of staring toward the windows. Mist moves softly beyond the glass while waves roll endlessly below. Behind him, Shane’s chin rests briefly against his shoulder. “You got quiet,” Shane murmurs.

“Thinking.”

“That usually concerns me.”

Ilya smiles faintly. Then, before he can overthink it, he turns slightly beneath Shane’s arm and presses a slow kiss against the corner of his mouth. Sleep-warm and soft. Shane makes a quiet surprised sound against him. Then immediately kisses him back. Slowly at first. Still half asleep. The blankets twist around them while gray morning light spills softly across the bed. No urgency. No performance. Just warmth and familiarity and the terrifying realization that this already feels less like a honeymoon and more like the beginning of the rest of their lives.

***

They spend most of the morning moving slowly through the suite. Coffee. Showers. Music low in the background. The ocean barely visible through fog.

Ilya is standing near the wet bar making espresso when Shane asks casually: “So where exactly do you live?”

Ilya glances over. “In general?”

“In Montreal.”

“Oh.” The single syllable comes out more suspiciously than intended.

Shane notices immediately. “You do live in Montreal sometimes, right?”

“Sometimes.”

Shane lowers his book slowly from where he’s sitting on the sofa. “Ilya.”

“I travel.”

“That’s not answer.”

“It is technically answer.”

Shane stares at him.

Ilya sighs dramatically and leans back against the counter. “I have apartment in Boston.”

“You live in Boston.”

“Yes.”

“But you work everywhere.”

“Yes.”

“And Montreal?”

Ilya hesitates briefly. “I rent place occasionally when needed.”

Shane blinks once. “You don’t actually have a home in Canada.”

“Now I do,” Ilya says lightly. The words slip out before he fully thinks about them. Silence lands briefly afterward.

Shane looks at him carefully across the room. Not alarmed. Not pressured.

Thinking.

Then quietly:

“You can stay with me.” The simplicity of the statement hits harder than it should.

Ilya looks away first under the excuse of fixing the coffee machine. “That was always plan,” he says lightly. “You married me. Very difficult to return husband afterward.”

Shane smiles faintly. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” And that’s the problem. Shane always sounds serious. Not intense. Not possessive. Certain. Like it genuinely never occurred to him that Ilya might not belong beside him now. The realization settles somewhere tender and terrifying beneath Ilya’s ribs. Because Shane has family there. Friends. A life. And Ilya is the one entering it. The one who has to fit. The one who has to become understandable to people who already love Shane. The thought lodges quietly beneath his skin for the rest of the morning.

***

They go kayaking that afternoon because the weather finally clears enough to leave the coastline bright and silver-blue beneath the clouds. The water is calmer farther inside Clayoquot Sound. Still cold. Always cold.

“I think your country is trying to kill me slowly,” Ilya says while adjusting the life jacket.

“You say that every day.”

“Yes,” Ilya replies. “Because evidence continues mounting.” Shane laughs while helping steady the kayak near the dock. Ilya likes making him laugh more than he should. That realization has become impossible to avoid now. 

Out on the water, everything feels impossibly quiet. The paddles dip softly through silver reflections while forest presses deep green against the shoreline around them. At one point Shane reaches forward automatically to brush water from Ilya’s sleeve after he splashes himself badly. The gesture is absentminded. Natural, like touching him has already become instinct.

Ilya feels warmth bloom low in his chest immediately. Dangerous again. Always dangerous.

“So,” Shane says after a while, steering them slowly around a cluster of rocks. “Work.”

Ilya groans immediately. “No.”

“We have to talk about it eventually.”

“Terrible attitude for honeymoon.”

Shane smiles. “You still modeling full-time?”

“Yes.”

“How does that work with… everything?”

Marriage. Montreal. Them. Ilya watches sunlight break softly across the water before answering. “I can base myself there more,” he says carefully. “Milan, Paris, New York still happen. But less constantly.”

“You’d want that?” The concern in Shane’s voice catches him slightly off guard. Not suspicion. Actual concern. “For your career,” Shane clarifies quickly. “I don’t want you giving up things because of me.”

Something unexpectedly emotional twists inside Ilya’s chest. Because no one in his life says things like that carefully. Usually people either want more from him or resent what the career takes away. Shane sounds like he wants him intact. “Yes,” Ilya says quietly after a moment. “I think maybe I’m tired.”

Shane looks over immediately. Not judging. Just attentive. And suddenly Ilya can picture this too clearly: coming home from airports to Shane, complaining dramatically about flights while Shane makes tea, belonging somewhere instead of drifting constantly between cities.

The image feels dangerously close to hope.

***

That night they dress up for dinner. Not because they have to. Because it’s their last full night here and neither of them wants to ignore that.

The restaurant sits directly over the water again, candles glowing softly against the windows while dusk settles blue-gray across the coastline outside. Ilya watches Shane loosen slightly more every hour they spend together now. The difference is visible. Less tension in his shoulders. More laughter. More touching without thinking about it.

At one point Shane reaches across the table to steal food from Ilya’s plate and Ilya just stares at him.

“What?”

“You’re evolving.”

“I bought you dessert earlier.”

“That is unrelated crime.”

Shane laughs quietly into his wineglass. God. Ilya is completely fucked. Dinner stretches late into the evening. Conversation drifting between serious and stupid effortlessly now. At one point Shane asks, “Do you want to look for something together eventually?”

Ilya blinks. “What?”

“A place.” The words land softly between them. Not hypothetical. Real. Shane continues carefully: “If my apartment feels too much like my space, we could find something else eventually. Somewhere that feels more ours.”

The sincerity in him is unbearable sometimes. Because he means it. He’s already making room. Ilya smiles lightly to hide the sudden ache low in his chest. “You are trying very hard not to scare me.”

Shane looks startled. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.” That gets him another laugh. But underneath it, the fear lingers quietly. Not fear of Shane. Fear of fitting. Because Shane talks about his life like there’s space waiting naturally for Ilya inside it. But Shane already belongs to people. Rose. Hayden and Jackie. His parents. People who know him deeply already.

Ilya suddenly wonders what it will feel like standing inside those relationships permanently. Will they really keep looking at him warmly once the novelty fades? Will he always feel slightly temporary inside Shane’s world even after the marriage becomes permanent legally too? 

The thoughts stay trapped quietly beneath his smile while Shane keeps talking about neighborhoods in Montreal. Plateau. Old Montréal. Somewhere with more light. And the worst part is that Ilya wants it badly enough now to be frightened by how much it could hurt if he fails.

***

Later that evening, after dinner, they end up back on Chesterman Beach carrying takeout coffees through the cold. The sky is fading slowly from blue to gray above the water while the tide rolls dark and restless across the sand. Wind pushes hard off the ocean, cold enough that even Shane finally looks miserable about it.

Ilya notices immediately. “You’re suffering.”

“I’m cold.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Suffering.”

Shane gives him a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. The expression makes warmth bloom instantly in Ilya’s chest. That keeps happening now. Every small thing Shane does somehow settles somewhere deep inside him before he can stop it.

The wind catches Ilya’s curls hard enough to blow them directly across his face again. Annoying. He pushes them back unsuccessfully once. Twice. Then Shane reaches over automatically and brushes them carefully away from his eyes.

The movement is absentminded. Instinctive. Like touching Ilya has already become natural to him. Both of them go still for half a second afterward. Not awkward. Just aware. Shane’s fingers linger briefly near Ilya’s temple before pulling away. “You do that constantly now,” Ilya says quietly before he can stop himself.

Shane looks over. “What?”

“Touch me.”

The words land softly between them beneath the sound of the waves. Shane blinks once like he genuinely hadn’t noticed. Then something warmer appears in his expression. “Oh.”

Ilya smiles slowly despite himself. “Very intelligent response.”

“You made me self-conscious.”

“That was intentional.”

Shane laughs softly under his breath. God. Ilya thinks suddenly, helplessly: I could listen to that forever. The realization nearly knocks the breath out of him.

They keep walking after that, slow and aimless along the shoreline while the ocean pushes around their shoes occasionally. The beach is mostly empty except for distant figures farther down near the water.

Then Ilya spots the dog. He stops immediately.

Shane nearly walks into him. “What?”

Ilya points dramatically. “Look.”

About fifty feet away, someone is walking an enormous black dog along the edge of the tide.  The animal looks deeply fluffy. This is important.

Shane follows his line of sight slowly. “You interrupted me for a dog?”

“It’s exceptional dog.”

“You don’t even know that.”

“I feel it spiritually.”

Shane laughs again while Ilya is already heading toward the animal with complete certainty. The dog turns out to be enormous and deeply affectionate. Perfect, basically. Within seconds Ilya is crouched in the sand scratching behind its ears while speaking rapid Russian to it automatically. The dog responds with immediate devotion. “As expected,” Ilya murmurs seriously.

Behind him, Shane sounds helplessly amused. “Watching you flirt with animals is honestly alarming.”

Ilya looks up. “He understands me emotionally.”

“It’s been thirty seconds.”

“Real connections happen quickly.”

That gets another laugh. The owner smiles politely at them before eventually continuing farther down the beach with the dog. Ilya watches them leave with genuine disappointment.

Shane studies him carefully beside the water. “You’re grieving.”

“We had future together.”

“You knew him for under a minute.”

“Love does not care for time.” Shane laughs hard enough this time that he has to look away briefly toward the ocean. The sound hits Ilya squarely in the chest. Warm. Bright Real.

And suddenly he understands with terrifying clarity that he’s completely in love with his husband. Not gradually. Already. The realization leaves him almost dizzy for a second. Because this is the dangerous part now: not wanting Shane, not the marriage, not even permanence. It’s how badly Ilya wants to belong inside Shane’s life specifically.

Shane has parents who already adore him. Friends who know exactly how he takes his coffee and when he gets quiet and what kind of music he plays when he’s stressed. A home. A routine. People. And Ilya is the variable entering all of it. The outsider.

The thought settles heavily beneath his ribs while they continue walking beside the ocean. Will they really keep liking him once he stops being interesting? Once he becomes permanent instead of new? Will Montreal ever feel like his city too, or just the place Shane already built a life before him?

Beside him, Shane nudges his shoulder lightly. “You disappeared mentally.”

Ilya glances over. “Thinking.”

“That usually worries me.”

“You’ll survive.”

Shane studies him for another second like he’s trying to decide whether to push further. Then instead, casually, naturally, he reaches down and takes Ilya’s hand. No hesitation. No self-consciousness. Just warm fingers sliding easily between his like they’ve always belonged there. 

The contact hurts unexpectedly. Not physically. Emotionally. Because Shane does things like this constantly now. Makes space for him instinctively. Includes him automatically. Talks about apartments and routines and future plans like Ilya is already woven into all of it permanently. As if there was never another possibility.

Ilya looks down briefly at their joined hands while cold wind rushes around them off the ocean. Their wedding rings catch faintly in the fading light. Married. Real. And standing there beside the water with Shane’s hand warm around his, Ilya realizes the frightening part isn’t whether he loves Shane enough. It’s whether he will ever stop waiting for someone to realize he doesn’t quite fit inside a life this good. 

***

On May ninth, they pack slowly. Too slowly. Neither of them says it out loud, but the room already feels different. Temporary again. Suitcases open across the bedroom. The smell of coffee. Ocean visible beyond the windows one last time.

Ilya folds one of Shane’s sweaters automatically before realizing halfway through that he’s already started treating Shane’s things carefully, like they belong partly to him too. The realization catches unexpectedly in his chest.

Behind him, Shane zips one suitcase closed before glancing over. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately, too quickly probably. But Shane accepts the answer easily and moves closer instead, brushing one hand briefly against Ilya’s back as he passes. Casual touch. Warm. Natural.

“I was thinking,” Shane says carefully while reaching for his jacket. “My parents want dinner next week.” There it is. Real life.

Ilya smiles automatically. “Already?” 

“My mother’s obsessed with you.”

“She has excellent judgment.”

Shane snorts softly. But beneath the joke, something nervous twists low inside Ilya anyway. Dinner. Family. Shane’s real life beginning around him again. And suddenly he understands with painful clarity that this is the actual terrifying part. Not marriage. Belonging. Because Shane has made space for him so easily already. And Ilya has no idea yet whether he knows how to live inside that kind of love without eventually ruining it.

The rest of the day passes too quickly. That’s the first thing Ilya notices. Not dramatically. Not painfully. Just quietly, constantly. Every hour feels shorter than it should.

By late morning their suitcases are standing upright near the door of the suite, zipped closed and waiting. The room already looks less like theirs because of it. Too clean again. The blankets folded back neatly. The coffee cups gone. No jackets over chairs. No evidence left of the strange temporary life they built here together.

Ilya hates it immediately. Shane is moving around the bedroom gathering chargers and books with the focused efficiency he applies to everything practical. It should feel cold. Instead it feels weirdly comforting watching him. Because Shane always finishes things carefully. Even packing.

“You’re thinking again,” Shane says without looking up from his suitcase.

Ilya narrows his eyes. “I dislike that you can tell now.”

“You get quiet.”

“I am naturally mysterious.”

“You sigh dramatically at least once every thirty seconds.”

“That is different.”

Shane laughs softly. Ilya’s chest still reacts to that sound instantly every time. Deeply humiliating. They leave the suite slowly. Too slowly. Ilya lingers near the windows one last time while Shane finishes checking drawers and bathroom counters for forgotten things.

The ocean beyond Chesterman Beach is silver-gray again beneath low clouds. Wind moving hard through the trees below. For a second Ilya lets himself imagine staying another week. Another month. Just existing here with Shane where nothing else could reach them yet. No press. No Alexei. No real life. Just warmth and ocean and Shane smiling at him over morning coffee. The fantasy hurts enough that he forces himself away from the windows before it settles too deeply.

Behind him, Shane reaches automatically for his hand once they step outside. No hesitation. Like he’s been doing it forever already.

***

The drive back toward the airport feels quieter than the rest of the week. Not bad. Just aware. The honeymoon is ending. Real life is beginning again.

Ilya watches the coastline disappear gradually through the car windows while Shane answers a work email beside him with visible reluctance. “See?” Ilya says softly. “Businessman.”

Shane groans without looking up from his phone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” The answer comes automatically from both of them this time. That stills the car briefly afterward. Not awkward. Just real.

Shane glances over eventually, something softer appearing in his expression. “No,” he says quietly. “I really don’t.”

Ilya looks away first. Outside, rain starts again lightly against the windows.

***

The airport is tiny. Almost absurdly tiny after years of international terminals and security lines and fashion-week chaos.

Shane seems delighted by this. “This barely qualifies as airport.”

“It looks emotionally fragile.”

“There are like three gates.”

“One employee.”

Shane snorts softly beside him while checking them in. Ilya watches him talk to the woman at the counter with quiet fascination. Shane is kind to strangers in such an unthinking way. Not performative politeness. Not charm. Just attentiveness. Eye contact. Patience. Warmth.

The woman smiles at him immediately. Of course she does. Ilya suddenly understands with sharp painful clarity how easy it must be to love Shane once you know him. The realization sits heavily in his chest while they move through security. Because people like Shane build roots everywhere without trying. And Ilya has spent most of his life learning how not to stay long enough for roots to matter.

***

Their flight to Vancouver is small enough that turbulence shakes the plane almost immediately after takeoff. Ilya hates small planes privately. He refuses to admit this publicly. Unfortunately, Shane notices everything now.

Halfway through a rough patch of turbulence, Shane looks over from the window seat. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The plane drops slightly. Ilya grips the armrest harder.

Shane’s mouth twitches faintly. “You’re scared.”

“I am dignified.”

“You’re terrified.”

“I am evaluating structural concerns.”

Shane laughs quietly before reaching over and prying Ilya’s hand away from the armrest. Then he laces their fingers together casually between the seats. Like it’s nothing. Like this. Like them. Ilya looks down at their hands briefly. Wedding rings pressed together. Warm fingers. Steady pressure every time turbulence shakes the plane again. Something painfully soft opens inside his chest. Because Shane doesn’t make him feel embarrassing for needing comfort. He just gives it. Naturally.

By the time they land in Vancouver, Ilya is half convinced he could survive almost anything as long as Shane keeps holding his hand like that. Which feels psychologically unhealthy, honestly.

***

The Vancouver airport is louder, brighter. Real life creeping back in around them immediately. People recognize Ilya twice before they even reach their next gate.

The first interaction is harmless. The second includes someone taking photos from too far away. Ilya feels the familiar shift happen automatically inside himself. Posture changing. Smile sharpening slightly. Awareness tightening.

Armor.

Beside him, Shane notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just steps closer while they walk. Shoulder brushing lightly against Ilya’s. The silent understanding nearly hurts. “You’re hovering again,” Ilya says lightly as they stop near their gate.

Shane looks offended. “I’m not hovering.”

“You are emotionally circling me like concerned husband.”

“I literally am your husband.”

“That’s true.” Shane’s expression softens briefly at the words anyway.

The gate area is crowded enough that they end up sitting close together automatically. Shane’s knee pressed against Ilya’s while he scrolls through emails on his phone with growing irritation. Ilya watches him for a minute. The focused crease between his eyebrows. The way he rubs his thumb absently along the edge of his wedding ring while reading. The visible reluctance every time another message appears.

“You don’t want to go back either,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane looks up immediately. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Shane sighs softly and leans his head briefly back against the seat behind him. “No,” he admits.

The honesty in him still devastates Ilya sometimes. Because there’s no game in it. No performance. Just truth. And suddenly Ilya understands something important: Shane isn’t calm because he cares less. He’s calm because he already decided. About the marriage. About them. About staying. The realization steadies something nervous inside Ilya he didn’t realize was still shaking.

***

The flight to Montreal lands late enough that the city glows gold beneath the plane windows when they descend. Ilya stares down at it silently while lights spread endlessly below them.

Montreal.

Home now.

Or at least the beginning of one.

Beside him, Shane leans slightly closer to look out the window too. “That’s us,” he says quietly. The words hit Ilya directly in the chest.

Us.

Not my apartment. Not your move. Not where you’ll stay.

Us.

The plane touches down smoothly. Passengers immediately start standing too early like every flight on earth apparently contains the same species of impatient idiot. Ilya barely notices. Because Shane reaches over while the plane taxis toward the gate and squeezes his hand once between their seats. Warm. Steady. Certain. No hesitation.

And sitting there beneath the dim cabin lights with Montreal waiting outside and Shane’s hand wrapped around his, Ilya realizes something that terrifies him completely: For the first time in years, arriving somewhere no longer feels lonely.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen - Shane

Chapter Notes

This chapter contains my absolute favorite scene that I've probably ever written. I hope everyone else enjoys it just as much :)

Shane wakes to unfamiliar silence. Not complete silence. Montreal traffic hums faintly somewhere below the windows. Pipes shifting softly inside the building. A distant siren several streets away. City sounds. Home.

Gray morning light spills across the bedroom in soft lines through partially open curtains. For one disorienting second, Shane forgets why the apartment feels different. Then he turns his head slightly and sees Ilya asleep beside him.

Right. Married. The realization lands easier now. Less shocking every time.

Ilya is sprawled diagonally across half the bed like he lost a fight with the blankets sometime during the night. One arm thrown above his head. Hair everywhere. One of Shane’s T-shirts twisted slightly at the waist where it rode up in his sleep. The shirt looks alarmingly good on him. That feels unfair somehow.

Shane studies him quietly for a moment. There’s something surreal about seeing Ilya here specifically. Not in Tofino. Not in hotels. Not suspended outside real life. Here. Inside Shane’s actual apartment. Their suitcases still half unpacked near the bedroom wall. Ilya’s watch sitting beside Shane’s keys near the dresser. Evidence already.

Shane feels something warm settle low in his chest before he can stop it. Then Ilya shifts slightly beneath the blankets without opening his eyes. “You’re staring again.”

Shane smiles despite himself. “You’re awake.”

“No,” Ilya says sleepily. “I’m haunting apartment.” His Russian accent thickens when he’s tired.

Shane’s entire nervous system reacts to this like a complete idiot. “You drool,” Shane says calmly.

Ilya opens one eye immediately. “Lies.”

“Tragic amounts.”

“You are trying psychological warfare very early.”

“It’s my last day off. I have energy.” That gets him a sleepy laugh. God. The apartment already feels warmer with that sound inside it.

***

Shane comes out of the shower to the sound of cabinet doors slamming and Russian profanity drifting from the kitchen. He pauses halfway through drying his hair. Then another noise follows. A metallic clatter. A muffled “oh no.” And a heavy thump followed by Ilya muttering something deeply suspicious in Russian.

Shane walks into the kitchen still barefoot and damp-haired, expecting minor chaos. Instead he finds complete devastation.

Flour everywhere. Not a little flour. Catastrophic flour. Shane stops in the doorway. “What happened?”

Ilya points immediately. “Your stove is aggressive.”

“My stove?”

“Yes.”

Shane looks around slowly. “Why does it look like a bakery exploded in here?”

“I am making blini.”

“That explains nothing.”

Ilya gestures toward the counter dramatically. “It is cultural breakfast.”

Shane blinks once. Then notices the recipe open on Ilya’s phone. In Russian.

“You’re making crepes?”

“Blini,” Ilya corrects with deep offense. “Different emotionally.”

“Sure.”

Ilya narrows his eyes at him before returning his attention to the pan. Whatever is currently cooking inside it looks deeply unstable. Shane walks closer carefully like approaching a wounded animal. “You know we have restaurants.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But this is romantic.” The sincerity of the statement catches Shane off guard hard enough that he just stands there for a second. Ilya notices immediately. “You’re doing face.”

“What face?”

“Fond emotional face.”

“I don’t have one of those.”

“You absolutely do.”

Before Shane can defend himself, Ilya attempts to flip the blini. It folds violently into itself midair before collapsing back into the pan like a dying star. Silence. Then: “…okay.” Shane laughs before he can stop himself. Ilya looks personally betrayed. “You said this would be supportive marriage.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re laughing.”

“Because this is objectively ridiculous.”

Ilya points the spatula at him threateningly. “Leave kitchen if you cannot behave.”

Shane stays exactly where he is. Mostly because Ilya looks unfairly good like this. Messy curls. Bare feet. Flour dusted across the front of Shane’s shirt. Domestic and warm and real in a way that keeps catching Shane off guard every few minutes lately.

The apartment still doesn’t entirely feel real with another person inside it. Not in a bad way. In a dangerous way. Like Shane’s life quietly rearranged itself while he wasn’t paying attention.

Ilya frowns down at the pan again. “Maybe batter is wrong.”

“You measured things?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“With heart.”

“Oh no.”

“I used cup.”

“Which cup?” Ilya points vaguely toward the drying rack. Shane follows the gesture. Wine glass. He closes his eyes briefly. “You measured flour with a wine glass.”

“It had volume.”

“That’s not how baking works.”

“It is working enough.”

Shane looks meaningfully toward the pan where the latest blini has somehow fused permanently to the surface. “I disagree.”

Ilya laughs suddenly then. Bright and unguarded and warm enough that Shane feels it straight through his chest. God. This is becoming a problem. “You are very judgmental for man standing there doing nothing,” Ilya says.

“Because I enjoy living.”

“Coward.”

Then Ilya reaches toward the flour bag again and immediately sends a white cloud exploding across the counter.

And directly onto Shane.

There’s a beat of complete silence.

Ilya stares at him.

Shane stares back.

Then slowly: “Did you just throw flour at me?”

“It was accident.”

“You’re smiling.”

“That is unrelated.”

Shane grabs the dish towel automatically.

Ilya gasps dramatically. “Violence.”

“It’s literally a towel.”

“You’ve changed.”

Shane steps closer anyway, reaching out to brush flour from Ilya’s cheek. The movement stills both of them immediately. Because suddenly they’re standing close enough that Shane can feel warmth radiating off him. Can see the tiny flecks of flour caught in his curls. Can smell coffee and sugar and soap and something distinctly Ilya underneath all of it. 

The apartment goes quieter around them. Ilya looks up at him softly. And Shane realizes with sudden clarity that this might actually be the first real morning of their marriage. Not the honeymoon. Not suspended reality. Home. Kitchen disasters. Coffee. Bare feet on hardwood floors. A life.

“You’re staring again,” Ilya murmurs.

“You’re covered in flour.”

“Yes,” Ilya says quietly. “Very beautiful.”

Shane laughs softly under his breath. Then kisses him. Warm and slow and tasting faintly like coffee. Ilya makes a quiet pleased sound against his mouth immediately, one flour-covered hand sliding lightly against Shane’s waist. The kiss deepens briefly before the smell of burning batter interrupts them. 

Both of them freeze. Then turn slowly toward the stove. Smoke rises steadily from the pan. “Oh my god,” Shane says.

“The blini are emotional,” Ilya says gravely.

“The blini are on fire.”

They both start laughing at the same time. Real laughter. The kind that makes Shane bend forward against the counter while Ilya leans helplessly against his shoulder still holding the spatula.

And standing there in the middle of the ruined kitchen with flour all over his apartment and smoke filling the air, Shane realizes he’s never been happier to lose control of his space in his entire life.

The counters are dusted white. There’s batter on the ceiling somehow. One dish towel appears permanently sacrificed. And standing in the middle of it all is Ilya wearing one of Shane’s old McGill T-shirts while glaring at a frying pan with visible betrayal.

***

They spend the rest of the morning cleaning flour out of places Shane didn’t realize flour could physically reach. Or rather: Shane cleans.

Ilya follows him around the apartment “helping,” which mostly consists of opening cabinets curiously, reorganizing things incorrectly, and continuing to make observations like an extremely beautiful raccoon. 

“I like knowing where things are.”

“You live like museum curator.”

Shane glances over from wiping down the counter. “You measured flour with a wine glass.”

“It had volume.”

“That sentence is going to upset me all day.”

Ilya smiles without remorse and opens another cabinet.

“Oh my god,” he says softly. “You organized mugs by size.”

 “You own seven nearly identical black sweaters.”

“They are emotionally distinct.”

The apartment feels different now. Less pristine. Less controlled. There’s still flour dusted faintly along the edge of the stove despite Shane cleaning it twice already. One of Ilya’s suitcases sits half-unpacked beside the bedroom doorway. Coffee cups cool forgotten on the counter while music plays quietly from someone’s phone. The space feels lived in. Shared. And every time Shane catches sight of Ilya moving comfortably through his kitchen in Shane’s clothes, he feels something warm and dangerous settle deeper into place inside his chest.

At one point Shane turns from the kitchen counter and nearly walks directly into him. Ilya steadies him automatically with both hands against his waist. The contact stills both of them briefly. “You need traffic system,” Ilya says quietly.

“You’re standing in the middle of the kitchen.”

“This is shared space now.” The words hit Shane directly in the chest. Shared. Home. He kisses Ilya before he fully thinks about it. Quick. Warm. Domestic.

Ilya smiles against his mouth immediately afterward. “Very aggressive for morning.”

“You’re in my way.”

“Your solution to inconvenience is kissing?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Shane laughs softly and pulls away just as his phone rings. He groans immediately upon seeing the screen. “Mom.”

Ilya lights up instantly. “Answer.”

“You sound excited.”

“I enjoy your mother. She threatened me with leftovers at wedding.”

Shane answers anyway and puts the call on speaker phone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Finally,” Yuna says immediately. “You’re alive.”

“We landed last night.”

“Yes, and then you disappeared into marital bliss apparently.”

Across the kitchen, Ilya nearly chokes on his coffee.

Shane closes his eyes briefly. “Please never say that again.”

Yuna ignores him completely. “Is Ilya awake?”

“I am here,” Ilya calls immediately.

“Oh good,” Yuna says warmly. “You survived my son’s apartment.”

“Barely. Very organized. Emotionally intimidating.”

Shane watches the easy affection settle immediately into Yuna’s voice while they talk. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Like she already decided Ilya belongs here too. The realization loosens something quietly inside him. Dinner gets arranged quickly afterward.

“Six o’clock,” Yuna says firmly. “And don’t let Dad make you think he doesn’t care what shirt he wears because he absolutely does.”

“I can hear you,” David shouts distantly.

“Good.”

Shane hangs up smiling before he can stop himself. Ilya notices immediately. “You’re happy.”

“That’s suspiciously accusatory.”

“It was observation.”

Before Shane can answer, Ilya’s phone rings too. His expression changes slightly when he sees the caller. “Cliff.” He answers immediately. “Hello, beautiful.”

Shane snorts softly and returns to unpacking while listening automatically to one half of the conversation. Then pauses because Ilya goes completely still near the kitchen island. “What?”

A pause, then: “You did what?” Shane looks over immediately. Ilya’s expression has gone openly shocked now. “No,” he says quietly. “You did not.” Another pause, then slowly, softly: “…Cliff.”

Something twists unexpectedly in Shane’s chest at the tone alone. Emotion. Real emotion. When the call finally ends several minutes later, Ilya just stands there holding the phone loosely in one hand. “What happened?”

Ilya looks up. “He got apartment here.”

Shane blinks once. “In Montreal?”

Ilya nods slowly. “He was supposed to stay in Boston.”

There’s something vulnerable beneath the words suddenly. Something almost disoriented. Shane moves closer instinctively. “For work?”

“Svetlana helped him.” Ilya laughs softly once like he still can’t fully believe it. “She arranged visa situation so he can keep working with me.”

The realization lands visibly across his face in real time. Someone stayed. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to.

Shane reaches out automatically and touches the back of his neck lightly. “Invite him to lunch.”

Ilya looks up immediately. “Really?”

“This is your home, Ilya. And it’s his first day here too.”

Warmth flickers across Ilya’s expression so quickly Shane almost misses it. Then, softer: “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making room for people.” The sincerity in his voice catches Shane slightly off guard. Before he can answer, Ilya leans forward and kisses him quickly once. Then immediately ruins the moment by saying: “Also Cliff will judge your furniture.”

“Great.”

“He’s very mean about lamps.”

***

Cliff arrives just after noon carrying two coffees and looking deeply unimpressed by the state of the kitchen. He steps inside, takes one look at the lingering flour dusted across the counter and stove, then slowly removes his sunglasses.

“What,” he says carefully, “happened here?”

Behind Shane, Ilya looks offended immediately. “It was romantic.”

“It looks like a hostage situation involving pastry.”

Shane takes one of the coffees from Cliff with visible gratitude. “Thank you.”

Cliff’s gaze moves slowly around the apartment after that. The bookshelves. The carefully arranged furniture. The labeled storage boxes near the dining room. The planner open beside Shane’s laptop. Then, unexpectedly: “Oh thank god.”

Shane blinks once. “What?”

“You’re organized.”

“We established that.”

Ilya gasps dramatically from the kitchen. “Excuse me.”

Cliff ignores him completely while walking farther into the apartment. “This is the first stable environment I’ve seen him in since Milan.”

“That’s not true,” Ilya says.

“You lost your passport twice in one month.”

“That was emotionally complicated.”

“You left it inside a hotel safe.”

“There were many safes.”

Shane laughs softly before he can stop himself. And suddenly he understands the dynamic immediately. Cliff isn’t chaos. He manages chaos professionally. Mostly Ilya-shaped chaos. The realization becomes more obvious by the second.

Cliff notices things the same way Shane does. Tracks details automatically. Straightens one of the dining chairs absentmindedly while walking past it. Sets his coffee down on a coaster without thinking.

Meanwhile, Ilya is currently leaning across the counter eating strawberries directly out of the container while flour remains somehow visible in his hair. “Oh no,” Ilya says slowly, looking between them. “You are same person.”

“That feels insulting to both of us,” Cliff replies calmly. Shane smiles into his coffee. Then Cliff notices the planner. His entire expression changes. “What is this?”

Shane glances over. “My schedule.” Cliff walks toward it slowly like he’s approaching religious artifact.

Ilya groans immediately. “No.”

There’s color coding. Obviously. Work meetings in black. Court appearances in blue. Personal commitments in green. Travel outlined separately.

Cliff stares down at it in silence for several seconds. Then softly: “Jesus Christ.”

“Thank you,” Shane says automatically.

“This is beautiful.”

Ilya looks genuinely horrified now. “I hate whatever this is.”

Cliff flips one page carefully. “You separate by category and urgency?”

“Yes.”

“And you archive quarterly?”

“Yes.”

Cliff presses a hand briefly against his chest. “Finally. Competence.”

Ilya points accusingly at both of them. “You’re flirting.”

“We’re organizing,” Shane says calmly.

“That’s worse.”

Lunch arrives from the deli downstairs shortly afterward. They spread out around the living room with sandwiches and coffees while soft afternoon light filters through the windows overlooking downtown Montreal.

The apartment feels strangely full suddenly. Warm. Lived in. Shane notices automatically that Ilya settles almost immediately once Cliff is there. Less tension. More unconscious movement. More softness around the edges.

At one point Ilya leaves his drink balanced dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table. Both Shane and Cliff reach for it simultaneously. The silence afterward is immediate.

Then Cliff slowly looks at Shane. “You see it too.”

“Yes.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “I am sitting right here.”

“You live recklessly,” Cliff says.

“You left wet towels on hardwood floors this morning,” Shane adds.

“That was one time.”

“It was three times,” Cliff says instantly. Shane feels absurdly vindicated.

“Oh my god,” Ilya mutters. “You formed alliance already.”

“We formed standards,” Cliff corrects.

Lunch shifts naturally into work discussion after that. The difference in Cliff becomes immediate. Still calm. Still reserved. Just sharper now. He pulls out his tablet and opens what appears to be several terrifyingly organized folders. “I already spoke to three Montreal agencies,” he says while scrolling. “Two are viable. One is run by idiots.”

“You met them yesterday,” Ilya says.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“While you were emotionally bonding with forests.” Shane snorts softly into his drink.

Ilya points at Cliff accusingly. “See? Mean.”

“You respond well to structure.”

“I respond well to beauty.”

“You respond poorly to calendars,” Cliff says.

“That’s not my fault.”

Shane leans back slightly into the sofa, watching them. The familiarity between them is quieter than he expected. Not dramatic. Not codependent. Built from years of rhythm and trust and mutual competence. And beneath all the teasing, Shane notices something else too: Cliff takes care of him. Not loudly. Not emotionally. Practically. Like it’s instinct.

“I already lined up print work here,” Cliff says eventually.

Ilya goes still immediately. “What?”

“It’s mostly commercial print and lifestyle campaigns to start.” Cliff scrolls through emails casually. “Nothing exhausting. Local work. A fragrance campaign. One outerwear thing.”

“You already arranged this?”

“You married somebody in Montreal,” Cliff says simply. “Obviously I adjusted your schedule.”

The words land softly in the room. Ilya stares at him for a second longer than usual. And Shane sees it then: the brief crack in composure, the almost startled relief underneath it. Because Ilya genuinely expected things to disappear. Work. Stability. People.

Instead, the people who love him are just… rearranging around him. Making space. Cliff keeps talking while pulling up agency portfolios. “We’ll still need local representation eventually. I scheduled meetings next week.”

“You scheduled them already?”

“Yes.”

“Without asking me?”

“You would have forgotten.”

“That is slander.”

“You missed a fitting in Paris because you got distracted by a dog.”

“It was excellent dog.” Shane laughs again before he can stop himself. Ilya looks deeply betrayed. “Oh no,” he says softly. “Now there are two of you.”

Cliff glances toward Shane calmly. “We should probably coordinate intervention strategies.”

“Agreed.”

“This marriage is becoming abusive,” Ilya mutters. But he’s smiling. Really smiling.

And watching him there in Shane’s living room with his coffee abandoned on the table and relief slowly replacing tension in his face, Shane understands something important with painful clarity: Ilya expected love to cost him everything else. Instead, people are staying.

***

Dinner at his parents’ house feels strangely normal. That’s the thing Shane notices immediately. Not tense. Not formal. Just warm.

The house smells like garlic and tomato sauce before they even fully step inside. Yuna hugs Shane first, then immediately hugs Ilya too.

“You’re thinner,” she accuses.

“I surfed tragically.”

“Sit down. Dad made too much food.”

From the kitchen, David calls, “There’s no such thing.”

The dining table is already set when they arrive. Chicken parm. Salad. Fresh bread. Wine breathing near the counter. Ilya looks quietly overwhelmed for half a second before smoothing it away. Shane notices anyway. His mother notices too, apparently, because she immediately presses a glass of wine into Ilya’s hand like emotional support.

“Come help me in the kitchen,” she says casually.

Shane watches Ilya follow her automatically. Then turns toward his father suspiciously. “What did she just do?”

David smiles faintly while pouring wine. “Your mother is interviewing him privately.”

“Oh my god.”

“She likes him.”

Warmth settles instantly in Shane’s chest. Across the kitchen, he can hear Ilya laughing softly at something Yuna says. The sound carries easily through the house. Comfortable already. 

Dinner settles into something easy faster than Shane expected. Not because the situation itself is normal. Nothing about this should feel normal.

His parents are sharing wine and chicken parm with the man Shane married less than two minutes after meeting him. Ilya is sitting at their dining table wearing one of Shane’s sweaters beneath a dark coat because Montreal is colder than Boston tonight. His wedding ring catches softly against the stem of his wineglass every time he gestures while talking. And somehow it still feels strangely natural.

David leans back slightly in his chair after refilling everyone’s wine. “So how does the modeling actually work?” he asks Ilya. “Logistically, I mean.”

Shane watches Ilya brace very slightly automatically. There it is. The expectation. The assumption that the question will become dismissive or shallow eventually. Shane recognizes it immediately now.

But David just continues thoughtfully: “Because the travel alone sounds exhausting.”

The tension in Ilya’s shoulders eases almost instantly. “Yes,” he says with a small laugh. “That part is terrible actually.”

David smiles faintly. “How often are you gone?”

“It depends on season.” Ilya sets his fork down carefully. “Fashion weeks are worst. Milan, Paris, New York sometimes all back-to-back.” He gestures vaguely. “You stop understanding what time zone you’re in eventually.”

“That can’t be healthy.”

“It’s not.”

Yuna points immediately with her fork. “See? That’s why he’s too thin.”

“Mama Hollander,” Ilya says solemnly, “I had two servings already.”

“You’re tall. That doesn’t count.”

David ignores both of them while looking at Ilya thoughtfully. “So what’s the actual work like day-to-day? I assume most of it isn’t just photographs.”

Shane sees the shift happen in real time. Ilya relaxes. Not dramatically. Gradually. Like each question removes another layer of carefulness from him.

“No,” Ilya says. “Photographs are easy part usually. Most of job is waiting.”

David blinks. “Waiting?”

“Oh yes.” Ilya leans back slightly in his chair. “Waiting for fittings. Waiting for lighting. Waiting for designers. Sometimes entire day disappears for twelve minutes of work.”

“That sounds like corporate law,” Shane says dryly.

Ilya points immediately. “Exactly. Except prettier.” 

David laughs. Real laughter. And Shane feels something warm settle quietly in his chest watching it happen. Because his father isn’t humoring him. He’s interested, actually interested. “What about the business side?” David asks. “Do you negotiate your own contracts?”

“Sometimes,” Ilya says. “Mostly agencies handle larger campaigns, but Cliff manages scheduling and negotiations with me.”

David nods thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of pressure young.”

The softness of the observation catches Ilya slightly off guard. Shane sees that happen, too. That small pause when someone responds to him with concern instead of fascination. “I started very young,” Ilya admits after a second. “Sixteen professionally.”

David’s eyebrows lift immediately. “Sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… a kid.”

Something flickers briefly across Ilya’s face. Gone almost immediately. But Shane catches it anyway. The acknowledgment matters.

Across the table, Yuna refills Ilya’s wine before he can stop her. “So,” she says more gently, “what was it like growing up in Russia?”

Ilya looks over at her carefully. Not guarded exactly. Just cautious in the way people become when they’re trying to decide how much of themselves is safe to hand over. Shane feels strangely tense suddenly watching him. Not because he thinks his parents will mishandle it, but because he realizes abruptly how much he wants them to understand Ilya correctly.

“My grandmother lived in Saint Petersburg,” Yuna says before Ilya can answer. “Very briefly. For school.”

That surprises him visibly. “Really?”

“She said winter was beautiful and emotionally aggressive.”

Ilya laughs so suddenly he nearly chokes on his wine. “Yes,” he says immediately. “That is exactly correct.”

Yuna smiles warmly. “What was your family like?”

The question is soft enough that Shane watches Ilya relax another fraction immediately. No interrogation. No performance. Just curiosity.

Ilya glances down briefly at his wineglass before answering. “My mother was quiet,” he says after a moment. “Very patient person. She liked cooking and gardening and old movies.” A small smile appears. “She died when I was twelve.”

The table goes softer around the edges immediately. Not awkward. Just careful. Yuna’s expression gentles almost instantly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder lightly, but Shane can see the shift in him anyway. The old, practiced ease sliding into place around grief. “She would have hated fashion industry though,” he says after a second, smile returning faintly. “She thought everyone in magazines looked too hungry.”

That gets a quiet laugh from David. “Smart woman,” he says warmly.

Ilya smiles down at his wineglass for a second before looking back up.  But Shane notices the sadness underneath the smile immediately. 

So does his mother apparently. “What about your brother?” Yuna asks carefully.

A beat of silence. Then Ilya answers lightly enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice the effort underneath it. “Alexei was good at everything first.”

“Older brother?”

“Yes.”

David nods knowingly. “That explains it.”

Ilya looks amused. “You have siblings?”

“I have a younger sister.” David points toward Shane. “He used to cry when she beat him at Mario Kart.”

“I was nine.”

“You were dramatic.”

“I continue to be correct.”

Ilya is smiling openly now. Relaxed enough that his posture has shifted entirely. One arm draped over the back of the chair. The careful polished version of him fading gradually into something softer, something real. Shane watches him glance between his parents while they talk and realizes with quiet relief that he’s enjoying himself, actually enjoying himself. Not enduring. Not performing. 

Belonging.

The realization hits Shane harder than he expects. Because some selfish part of him has apparently been afraid this entire time that eventually Ilya would look around at Shane’s life and realize none of it fits him properly.

But here he is: laughing at David’s terrible jokes, letting Yuna bully him into another helping of pasta, looking warm and loose and comfortable at Shane’s childhood dining table. Like maybe Shane’s life really does have space for him after all.

At one point Yuna asks, “Do you cook?”

Ilya looks horrified immediately. “No.”

“He absolutely can,” Shane says before thinking. Three heads turn toward him. Shane pauses, then sighs. “He made blini this morning.”

Ilya points accusingly across the table. “You said we would never discuss emotional crepe incident publicly.”

David looks delighted already. “Emotional crepe incident?”

“There was flour everywhere,” Shane says calmly.

“You helped.”

“I was trying to survive.”

Yuna laughs hard enough she has to set her wineglass down. And watching all of them together across the warm crowded table, Shane feels something settle quietly into place inside his chest. Not certainty. That came earlier. Something softer. Relief.

At one point David asks, “So how’d you two survive surfing?”

Ilya immediately points at Shane. “He drowned repeatedly.”

“I stood up eventually.”

“Briefly.”

“You fell too.”

“Yes,” Ilya says calmly. “But beautifully.”

David laughs hard enough to nearly spill wine. Shane watches it all quietly for a second. His father smiling. His mother arguing with Ilya about whether he eats enough vegetables. Ilya relaxed enough to tease people openly. 

And suddenly the apartment in Montreal stops feeling hypothetical. This. This feels real now. Not perfect. Not finished. But real.

Beside him under the table, Ilya’s knee bumps lightly against his. Instinctive. Comfortable. Shane glances over automatically. Ilya looks back at him immediately, softening slightly around the eyes the way he only does in private.

And sitting there at his parents’ dining table with garlic and wine and laughter filling the room around them, Shane realizes something with startling clarity: He’s already started thinking of this as the beginning of their life together instead of the aftermath of a wedding.

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen - Ilya

Ilya wakes slowly to the sound of Shane moving around the apartment. Not fully awake. Twilight-awake. Aware enough to recognize the soft rhythm of drawers opening and closing somewhere beyond the bedroom. The muted hum of the espresso machine. The quiet footsteps crossing hardwood floors.

Morning. Far too early morning, judging by the darkness still lingering faintly beyond the curtains. Ilya keeps his eyes closed on principle. This hour is disrespectful.

Somewhere in the apartment, Shane opens a cabinet carefully. Then pauses. Then opens another one. Ilya smiles faintly into the pillow without waking fully. Shane is trying not to be loud. Which means he’s probably being even quieter than necessary because he thinks Ilya is asleep.

The realization settles warm somewhere low in his chest. The bed still smells faintly like him. Coffee and cedar and soap. Home smells different with another person in it. The thought drifts sleepily through Ilya’s head before dissolving again.

A few minutes later, footsteps move closer. The bedroom door opens softly. Ilya stays exactly where he is beneath the blankets, sprawled diagonally across Shane’s side of the bed now that Shane is no longer occupying it. He hears fabric rustle quietly. Then the mattress dips beside him.

Warm fingers brush carefully through the curls falling across his forehead. “You’re awake,” Shane murmurs softly.

Ilya keeps his eyes closed stubbornly. “No.” Shane laughs quietly under his breath. Even half asleep, Ilya’s chest reacts immediately to that sound.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am victim of morning.” The fingers move through his hair again gently, pushing curls away from his face before Shane leans down and presses a slow kiss against his forehead. The tenderness of it nearly drags Ilya fully awake against his will. Almost. “What time is it,” he mumbles.

“Six fifteen.”

Ilya opens one eye immediately in visible horror. “Absolutely not.”

“I have work.”

“You should quit.”

“That feels extreme.”

“You could be mysterious house husband instead.”

Shane smiles faintly. Ilya can hear it in his voice before he even opens his eyes properly. “Tempting.”

Now that he’s looking at him fully, Ilya feels that familiar ache low in his chest again. Shane is already dressed for work. Dark suit. Tie loosened slightly while he adjusts his watch. Hair still damp from the shower. Beautiful. Deeply unfortunate.

“You look offensive,” Ilya says sleepily.

“That doesn’t sound complimentary.”

“It is.”

Shane’s expression softens instantly. He reaches down absentmindedly and smooths his thumb once along Ilya’s cheekbone. The intimacy of these tiny unconscious touches keeps wrecking him emotionally.

“What does your day look like?” Shane asks quietly.

Ilya groans and rolls slightly deeper into the blankets. “Cliff is forcing me to become productive citizen.”

“You have agency meetings.”

“Yes.” A pause. “And apparently fragrance campaign.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Unclear.”

Shane smiles again while adjusting the cuff of his shirt one-handed. “I’ll try to be home early.”

Ilya narrows his eyes immediately from the pillow. “What is ‘early’ in lawyer language.”

“Around eight.”

Silence. Then: “That’s nighttime.”

“It’s better than usual.”

The horrifying thing is Shane sounds sincere. Which means it probably is. Ilya stares at him for another second before muttering, “Your profession is deeply unhealthy.”

“That’s fair.”

Shane leans down slightly to pick up his bag from beside the bed. “Text me after your meetings?”

The request catches Ilya unexpectedly off guard. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s so natural. Like of course Shane wants updates about his day. Like of course they belong in each other’s routines now. Warmth spreads slowly through his chest despite the hour. “You want full emotional report?”

“I want to know how things went.”

“Hm.”

Shane studies him quietly for another second. Then softer: “You okay?”

The question lands more heavily than it should this early in the morning. Ilya knows what Shane’s actually asking underneath it. First real day back. New city. New routine. Separate lives for the first time since the wedding. Real life beginning. And somehow that realization makes the apartment feel different already. Quieter. “I’m okay,” Ilya says honestly.

Shane nods once like he believes him completely. Then he stands. Immediately the room feels colder. Terrible design flaw. “Go back to sleep,” Shane murmurs.

“I plan to die here actually.”

“That seems inconvenient.”

“For you maybe.” Shane shakes his head softly, still smiling. Then he turns toward the door. Absolutely not. Ilya reaches one arm sleepily out from beneath the blankets toward him. “Gimme kiss.”

Shane pauses immediately. Then laughs softly under his breath and walks back toward the bed without hesitation. Like there was never another possible outcome. Ilya curls his fingers lazily into the front of Shane’s shirt when he leans down. The kiss is warm and slow and still faintly coffee-flavored. Sleepy enough that neither of them rushes it.

Shane’s hand slides gently into his curls again while Ilya kisses him deeper just to feel him smile against his mouth. When they finally separate, Shane stays close for another second, his forehead resting briefly against Ilya’s. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says quietly.

The certainty in his voice settles deep inside Ilya’s chest. Not if. Not later maybe. Tonight. Like this belongs to both of them already. Ilya watches him leave afterward through half-awake eyes while early morning light slowly brightens the edges of the room. Then he buries his face deeper into Shane’s pillow, breathing in cedar and coffee and home, and realizes with quiet terrifying certainty that he’s already started measuring his days by when Shane comes back to him.

***

Ilya wakes again sometime after nine tangled sideways through Shane’s side of the bed with sunlight finally filtering pale gold through the curtains. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet now. No espresso machine humming. No footsteps moving between rooms. 

No Shane.

The absence feels immediate. Annoying, honestly. He stays in bed for another twenty minutes anyway because mornings are a fundamentally hostile concept and Shane’s sheets are warm. Also, the pillow still smells faintly like him.

Deeply manipulative.

Eventually hunger drags him upright. The apartment feels different during daylight. Cleaner somehow. Sharper. Very Shane. The kitchen counters are spotless again despite yesterday’s emotional crepe disaster. Shane apparently cleaned before leaving for work because of course he did. 

Ilya makes coffee slowly. Then stronger coffee because Shane’s machine is offensively efficient and he still hasn’t emotionally adjusted to corporate-lawyer caffeine standards.

Afterward he showers lazily with music playing faintly from his phone balanced on the counter. The hot water helps.

By the time he emerges dressed in soft black trousers and a sweater stolen from Shane’s closet weeks before Shane will probably even realize it’s missing, he almost feels human again. Almost.

Breakfast ends up being fruit and toast eaten barefoot at the kitchen island while Montreal traffic hums distantly below the apartment windows. Normal. Quiet. Safe.

The realization settles softly through him while he reaches for his phone. Meetings today. Agency introductions. A fitting later this week apparently. Cliff had texted him schedules around midnight because Cliff fundamentally does not believe in sleeping normally.

Ilya opens his messages while sipping coffee and freezes.

Unknown number. WhatsApp. One unread message.

The cold that moves through him is immediate. Not panic yet. Recognition. Because even before opening it, he knows.

Blocking me won’t make me disappear.

The coffee suddenly tastes metallic. Ilya stares at the screen without moving. There’s no name attached. There doesn’t need to be one. His body recognizes Alexei faster than his brain does. The apartment goes strangely quiet around him. No music. No traffic. Just the sharp hard pulse suddenly beating behind his ribs.

Ilya reads the message again despite himself. Blocking me won’t make me disappear. No threat. No yelling. That almost makes it worse. His chest tightens hard enough that he has to set the phone down briefly against the counter. Because he genuinely thought maybe they were clear. It had been quiet since Tofino. Since the wedding. Since he blocked every account and number Alexei had used before. Long enough that some terrified exhausted part of him had finally started believing distance might actually matter.

Apparently not.

Ilya stares out the apartment windows for several seconds without really seeing Montreal below him. Then reaches for his phone again and calls Svetlana immediately.

She answers on the second ring. “Ilya?” Something in her voice shifts instantly. Because he never calls this early. He has no reason to call her at all now that his permanent residency paperwork has been filed. “What happened?”

He exhales shakily once through his nose before answering. “He contacted me.”

Silence. Then, calm and immediate: “How?”

“WhatsApp.”

“Did you answer?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Ilya presses one hand hard against the edge of the counter. His pulse still hasn’t slowed properly. “He got new number.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The steadiness in her voice helps slightly. Not much. But enough to keep the panic from spiraling fully. “What did he say?” Ilya swallows once before reading it aloud quietly. Svetlana goes silent for half a second. Then: “That’s intimidation.”

“He didn’t threaten me.”

“He doesn’t need to.” Her voice stays level and controlled. “The point is making you aware he still has access to you.”

The words land cold and precise. Yes. Exactly that. Ilya suddenly feels stupid for how quickly the fear returned. One message and suddenly the apartment doesn’t feel safe anymore either. He hates that. “I thought maybe…” He stops.

Svetlana waits quietly.

“That maybe if I ignored him long enough he would stop.”

Her sigh comes soft through the phone. “Ilyusha.” Not pity. Something sadder. “He’s losing control of the situation,” she says carefully. “That makes people like Alexei unpredictable.” 

People like Alexei. Not brothers. Not family. Just dangerous men. The distinction hurts more than Ilya expects suddenly. “What do I do?”

“You keep not responding.” Her tone sharpens slightly into business again. “You screenshot everything. You forward it to me. And you tell Shane.”

That last part lands harder. Immediately. Ilya looks down at the kitchen counter. At Shane’s coffee mug still drying beside the sink. At the quiet apartment they’ve barely started building together. Fear twists sharply through him. “No.”

“You’re married.”

“That’s exactly why.”

Svetlana is quiet for a second. “He deserves to know.”

“I don’t want him dragged into this.”

“Ilya.”

His chest tightens harder. Because the truth is uglier than that. He doesn’t want to watch Shane look at him differently once this becomes fully real. Not the marriage arrangement. Not immigration complications. Fear. Blackmail. Threats. Alexei. The ugly parts. “He already knows enough,” Ilya says quietly.