Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Homophobia, Bottom Shane Hollander, Russian Mafia, Emergency Medical Technicians, Dark Romance, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Anal Sex, Smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-10 Updated: 2026-02-10 Words: 48,616 Chapters: 10/?

Let me ruin you.

Summary

In the frozen shadows of Montreal, Dr. Shane Hollander is the city’s most brilliant trauma surgeon, precise, untouchable, and relentlessly perfect. He lives by rules, ethics, and the suffocating expectations of a life he’s never dared question. That is, until Ilya Rozanov crashes into his emergency room like a storm straight from Siberia.

Ilya is a ghost from a brutal Russian mafia dynasty: rich beyond measure, dangerously charming, and running for his life

Notes

English is not my first language, so please be kind with any mistakes. Also, I know absolutely nothing about medicine, so if you notice something that looks like it came straight out of a medical TV show, it probably did.

Chapter 1: Quiet Shift

Shane Hollander stood with his back to the nurses’ station, arms crossed, staring at the patient board like it might reveal something he’d missed. The trauma bay at Montreal General glowed under the usual harsh fluorescent lights that made everyone look a little sick. It was 2:07 a.m. on a Tuesday in late November, and the ER had been strangely still for almost three hours. No sirens, no crashing gurneys, no shouting families. Just the steady hum of monitors, the occasional beep of an IV pump, and a nurse talking quietly to the lab on the phone on the other side of the desk.

Shane hated quiet nights. They never stayed quiet. The longer the calm lasted, the worse the crash when it came. He’d been a trauma surgeon long enough to know the pattern.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar stiffness after ten hours on his feet. His dark hair was still neat, unlike most of the staff. He refused to let the job show in his appearance. Lean from morning runs, sharp jaw, tired brown eyes. People called him handsome in that serious way that made patients trust him and interns nervous about disappointing him. He didn’t care about the compliments. He cared about results.

Hayden Pike appeared beside him, holding two coffees. His navy scrubs hung loose on his tall, lanky frame, and his dark hair stuck up at strange angles. He’d definitely been napping in the on-call room. Hayden wore that same half-smile that calmed patients and annoyed Shane at least twice a shift. They’d been friends since residency, back when Hayden flirted with every attending and Shane was still learning how to relax. Somehow the friendship had survived.

Hayden slid one coffee across the counter. Black, no sugar. Exactly how Shane liked it.

“This place is dead tonight,” Hayden said, keeping his voice low. “We might actually leave on time for once.”

Shane didn’t look away from the board. “Don’t say that.”

“What? It’s true. Quiet. Peaceful.”

“Pike. You just jinxed us. You know how this works.”

Hayden laughed, soft and completely unapologetic. “Superstitious, huh? It’s just a slow night. Even trauma gods get a break sometimes.”

Shane took the coffee anyway and allowed himself one careful sip. Bay 4 empty. Bay 7 empty. Waiting room: three low-acuity patients. He let out a slow breath.

Then the double doors at the far end slammed open.

A man staggered in, one hand pressed to his left shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers and soaked the sleeve of an expensive-looking leather jacket. His other hand braced against the doorframe to keep himself upright. Tall, maybe six-four or six-five, broad-shouldered, built like he knew how to use force. Light curly hair fell damp across his forehead, and a deep gash above his left eyebrow bled steadily down the side of his face. His eyes were a clear, startling blue. When they found Shane, a slow, crooked smile curved his mouth, like he’d just spotted something worth seeing.

“Privet,” he said, voice low and rough with a thick Russian accent. “I think I need… what do you call it? Stitches.”

Hayden let out a quiet whistle. “Well, there it is.”

Shane was already moving.

He crossed the bay in quick strides, snapping on gloves as he went. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”

The man straightened a bit, like he didn’t want to look too weak. Up close, he was younger than Shane had first thought—mid-twenties, maybe twenty-seven. Striking features: high cheekbones, full mouth, faint stubble, those pale blue eyes that seemed to take in everything. Blood ran down his temple and neck, soaking the collar of a black shirt under the jacket. He smelled of leather, cold night air, and a trace of good cologne.

“Little fight,” the man said, shrugging with the good shoulder. “No big deal.”

Shane checked the shoulder wound first, it was deep and ragged, still bleeding steadily, then the eyebrow cut. He raised a finger. “Follow this.”

The man tracked it smoothly in all directions. Shane clicked on his penlight and checked pupils. Equal, reactive, no obvious bleed.

“Any loss of consciousness?”

“No.”

“Headache? Nausea? Dizziness?”

“No headache. Maybe a little dizzy from the blood.” He tilted his head, studying Shane openly. “You have freckles.”

Shane paused. “What?”

“Across your nose.” The man’s smile grew, crooked and annoyingly charming. “Cute.”

Shane felt warmth creep up his neck. He ignored it. “Did you hit your head during this fight?”

“No. Head is fine. Shoulder and eyebrow, not so much.”

Shane stepped back. The man was coherent, oriented, following commands. No slurred speech. Stable enough for sutures and probably an X-ray.

“Pike,” Shane called. “Bay 3. Let’s get him cleaned up.”

Hayden grabbed a gown and the suture cart. The man followed Shane without complaint, moving carefully but steadily, blood dripping onto the floor.

In Bay 3, Shane pulled the curtain closed. “Jacket and shirt off, if you can.”

The man peeled off the jacket with a small wince, then pulled the soaked black shirt over his head in one motion. Underneath: lean muscle, defined abs, several old scars. Shane noted them clinically and focused on the fresh wounds.

The shoulder laceration was deep, four inches long, just below the clavicle. Not arterial, but messy. The eyebrow cut was cleaner, probably from a ring. It would scar, but not badly if done right.

“Lie back,” Shane said.

The man stretched out on the gurney, arms at his sides, watching Shane closely. “You are doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon. Dr. Hollander, Shane Hollander."

“Shane Hollander.” He said it slowly, like he was testing the sound. “Good name.”

Shane didn’t reply. He started irrigating the shoulder wound with saline, flushing out debris. The man didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened once.

“Pain level, one to ten?”

“Four. Maybe five when you poke it.”

Shane glanced up. The man’s blue eyes were on his face, not the wound.

“You always stare at doctors while they work?”

“Only the pretty ones with freckles.”

Shane’s hands stilled for half a second. He kept going, moving to the eyebrow next. Straight cut, minimal tension. Good for simple sutures.

“You’re lucky,” Shane said. “No fracture on the orbital ridge. Should heal clean.”

“Lucky is my middle name.”

“I doubt that.”

The man grinned, slow and a little dangerous. “You are very serious, Dr. Hollander. You should smile more. Would look good on you.”

Shane finished irrigating and reached for the lidocaine. “Local anesthetic. You’ll feel a sting.”

“Do what you need.”

Shane injected around both wounds. The man stayed still, breathing even, eyes following every move of Shane’s hands.

“You fight often?” Shane asked, mostly to break the silence.

“Sometimes.”

“Professionally?”

A short pause. “No.”

“Recreationally, then.”

Another crooked smile. “Something like that.”

Shane started suturing the eyebrow, careful stitches. The man watched the whole time without blinking.

“You have steady hands,” he said quietly. “Artist hands.”

“They’re trained.”

“Still beautiful.”

Shane tied off the last suture and stepped back, peeling off his gloves. The eyebrow looked clean. The shoulder would need imaging and deeper closure.

“Pike will close the shoulder,” he said. “It’s deeper. Might need an X-ray first. You can wait in the waiting room after.”

The man’s expression shifted looking to something like disappointment. “You will not do it?”

“I have other patients.”

A long moment. “I prefer you.”

Shane met those blue eyes evenly. “That’s not how this works.”

The man studied him, then nodded slowly. “Okay, Dr. Hollander. I wait for Pike.”

Shane pulled the curtain open and stepped out. Hayden stood just outside, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in that way that promised teasing later.

“Well?” Hayden asked.

“Deep laceration to the left shoulder, possible deltoid involvement. Eyebrow laceration is clean. No neuro deficits. Get an X-ray, then close if it’s clear.”

Hayden glanced toward the curtain, where the low murmur of Russian drifted out.

“Was he talking about your freckles?”

Shane didn’t answer, he walked back to the nurses’ station, picked up his now cold coffee, and tried to ignore the fact that his pulse was still running a little fast.

The Russian with the light curls, blue eyes, and crooked smile was just another patient and definitely a complication, and Shane Hollander didn’t do complications.

~

Shane stayed at the nurses’ station long enough to finish his charting on the Russian patient, entering the details under “John Doe” since the man hadn’t given a name and had left before registration could catch up. He didn’t dwell on it. There were always patients who vanished before paperwork caught them. He closed the tablet, rubbed his eyes, and told himself the quickened pulse from earlier was just the adrenaline of a sudden case breaking the quiet. Nothing else.

The quiet didn’t last.

By 2:45 the first real wave hit. A construction worker with a crushed hand from a dropped beam. Then a woman in diabetic ketoacidosis who’d waited too long to come in. Shane moved between bays, giving orders, starting lines, calling for labs. The board filled up fast. Around 4 a.m. the ambulance bay doors opened to the sound of multiple sirens. A city bus had skidded on black ice, sideswiped a delivery truck, and rolled onto its side. Twelve patients came through in the next hour. Broken bones, head injuries, one open femur fracture that made even the seasoned techs wince. Shane took the trauma lead, running the bay like clockwork: airway, breathing, circulation, imaging, surgery consults. He intubated one teenager, stabilized another with a tension pneumothorax, and scrubbed in for the femur at 5:30.

The hours blurred. Coffee turned cold in his hand before he could finish it. His scrubs stuck to his back with sweat. He barely noticed. This was the job he’d trained for, the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat.

By the time the last patient was wheeled up to ortho and the bay finally emptied again, the sky outside the windows had gone from black to pale gray. Shane glanced at the clock. 8:47 a.m. His shift had ended at 7. He peeled off his last pair of gloves, washed his hands until the skin felt raw, and changed into street clothes in the locker room. The quiet had come back, but it felt earned now.

He finally signed out around 8:50. The sun was up, weak and pale through the November clouds, but the day already felt old. He grabbed his coat from the locker room, checked his phone (three unread texts from his mom asking if he was eating, one from Hayden with a thumbs-up emoji), and headed for the staff exit.

Hayden was waiting outside the automatic doors, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. His hair was even worse now, flattened on one side from the on-call room pillow. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last six hours.

Shane pushed through the doors and stopped beside him. “You look like death.”

Hayden gave a tired laugh. “I feel like death. My bones are tired, man. My actual bones.”

Shane snorted. “You jinxed the night. This is your fault.”

Hayden pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him as they walked toward the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Blame the guy who brought you coffee. Classic Hollander move.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few seconds, boots crunching on the thin layer of salt scattered across the asphalt. The cold bit at Shane’s face, waking him up a little. He could see his breath in the air.

Hayden broke the quiet first. “You’re lucky, you know. You get to go home to a silent apartment. No screaming, no diapers, no tiny humans climbing on you the second you walk through the door.”

Shane glanced sideways at him. “You love it.”

“I do. But right now I’m so tired I could cry. Jackie's taking the girls to her mom’s for a couple hours so I can actually sleep. I might kiss her feet when I get home.”

Shane smiled despite himself. “Tell her I said hi.”

“She’s been complaining that you never come over anymore. Says she misses her favorite third wheel.”

Shane laughed, soft and genuine. “I’ll text her. We’ll set a date soon.”

They reached the parking lot. Shane’s car was parked in the far row, Hayden’s closer to the entrance. They stopped between the two vehicles.

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, man. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“You too, and don’t crash on the way home.”

“No promises.” Hayden grinned, then turned toward his car. “See you.”

Shane watched him go for a second, then unlocked his own door and slid inside. The engine started with a low rumble. He sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the dashboard without really seeing it. His body felt heavy, mind still replaying the night in fragments: the bus crash, the spleen, the way the OR lights had reflected off the instruments. And somewhere underneath all of it, the memory of pale blue eyes, light curls, and a crooked smile that had no business lingering in his head.

He shook it off. Just another patient.

Shane put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot, the hospital shrinking in his rearview mirror. The city streets were quiet now, the morning traffic still light. He turned the heat up, let the warmth settle over him, and drove toward home.

Tomorrow would be another day. Another set of decisions. Another chance to get it right.

For now, all he wanted was a shower, a bed, and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Chapter 2: After the Stitches.

Chapter Summary

Those freckles across the doctor's nose had been distracting as hell. Ilya had spent half the suturing session counting them, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to trace them with his tongue.

Ilya Rozanov shouldered through the heavy glass door of the high-rise in Old Montreal just as the first pale streaks of November dawn sliced across the sky. The lobby was hushed, the night doorman offering the same polite nod he always did, though this time it came with a flicker of real worry when his gaze caught the fresh white bandages peeking from the collar of Ilya’s leather jacket and the neat row of black stitches above his left eyebrow. Ilya flashed him the crooked, lazy smile he’d used on the doctor hours earlier—the one that said everything was fine, nothing to worry about—and headed for the elevator without another word.

His shoulder throbbed with every step, a deep, grinding ache that ran down his arm and left his fingers prickling. The lidocaine had worn off long ago, and whatever the nurse had slipped him was barely taking the edge off. He didn’t mind. The pain was solid proof he was still breathing, still moving, still one careful step ahead of the people who wanted him dead. He leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator as it rose to the twenty-third floor, watching his reflection: messy light curls matted with dried sweat and blood, pale blue eyes bruised with exhaustion, the new cut already swelling despite Dr. Shane Hollander. Those freckles across the doctor's nose had been distracting as hell. Ilya had spent half the suturing session counting them, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to trace them with his tongue.

The apartment was perfect for disappearing: high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the black glitter of the Saint Lawrence, sleek gray-and-black furniture that looked like no one had ever really lived here. He’d chosen it because it was expensive enough to feel safe, anonymous enough to be forgotten, and staffed by a doorman who never asked questions. Ilya dropped his keys on the console table, kicked off his boots, and peeled the jacket away with a sharp hiss. The black shirt underneath was ruined with dried blood, so he stripped it off too and tossed it toward the laundry basket. Barefoot, shirtless, he padded into the open living area, the cold hardwood biting the soles of his feet.

Svetlana was already waiting, perched on the edge of the leather sofa like she hadn’t closed her eyes all night. Arms crossed, dark hair in a messy bun, wearing one of his old Moscow sweatshirts that hung loose on her smaller frame. She looked like she wanted to murder him, and her gaze went straight to the bandages, then the stitches, then narrowed.

“You look like absolute shit,” she said in Russian, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

Ilya answered in the same language, low and tired. “You’re too kind.”

She stood in three quick strides, closing the distance. “Where the hell have you been? You disappear for hours after swearing you’d be careful, and you come back looking like you went twelve rounds with a meat grinder. I called you six times.”

“I was busy.” He moved past her to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of water. The cold air felt good against his bare skin, but reaching for it pulled the shoulder wound and made him grit his teeth.

“Busy getting yourself killed?” Her voice climbed. “You know Alexei already has people here. You know they’re asking questions. And you go out and pick a fight in some filthy basement bar like you’re still twenty and bulletproof? You’re being stupid, Ilya. Reckless. If they find you—”

“Enough.” The word came out harsher than he meant, still in Russian. “Prekrati. Ya znayu.”

He twisted the cap off and drank deeply, letting the cold rush down his throat. Svetlana watched him, anger masking the worry she couldn’t quite hide. She had every right to be furious. They’d fled Moscow together because of Alexei, because when their father lay dying last year, wheezing in that sterile hospital bed, Ilya had seen the cold calculation in his older brother’s eyes. Alexei wouldn’t wait for nature to take its course. The empire was too big, the money too tempting, and Ilya had always been the weak link in his mind: the one who smiled too easily, partied too hard, fucked whoever he wanted regardless of gender, and never quite fit the mold of ruthless heir. When the whispers of poison started, Ilya had quietly drained what his father had set aside for him in offshore accounts, grabbed Svetlana, and run.

Montreal was far enough, neutral enough, and Svetlana had contacts here. But Alexei didn’t leave loose ends dangling. He wanted Ilya gone for good, and he had the resources to make it happen.

Svetlana’s voice softened, just a fraction. “Knowing isn’t enough if you keep acting like you want to die.”

Ilya set the bottle down and turned to face her fully, switching to English because sometimes the lies came easier in a borrowed language. “It was just a fight, Lana. Some drunk idiots in a shitty bar. Nothing to do with Alexei.”

She stared at him for a long beat, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think I’m an idiot? You come home covered in blood and stitches and expect me to believe it was random? You do this on purpose, Ilya. You always do. You push and push until someone pushes back hard enough to break you, and one day they will.”

He wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat. She wasn’t wrong. The fight hadn’t been random. He’d walked into that basement club knowing exactly what kind of crowd he’d find, angry, drunk, looking for someone to hurt. He’d thrown just enough attitude, taken just enough hits on purpose. Not because he wanted to die, but because the pain was clean and real and drowned out the constant low hum of fear, the hollow ache of everything he’d lost. The burn in his shoulder now was better than the one in his chest when he let himself think too long about home.

Ilya leaned against the counter, crossing his arms carefully over his bare chest. “The doctor was good,” he said, almost to himself. “Very good.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “The doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon. Stitched me up like it was nothing. Steady hands. Pretty face.” A small, private smile tugged at his mouth, the kind he didn’t show anyone else. “Lots of freckles.”

She studied him, suspicion melting into something softer, almost amused. “You got yourself hurt on purpose so you could flirt with a doctor?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, then winced. “Or maybe I just needed stitches. Either way, it worked out.”

“You’re impossible.” But the heat was gone from her voice now. She stepped closer and reached up to touch the edge of the bandage on his shoulder, careful, almost tender. “Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.” He caught her hand before she could pull away, gave it a gentle squeeze. “But I’m fine, Lana. Really. I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

She didn’t believe him—he could see it in her eyes—but she didn’t push. Instead she sighed and let her hand fall. “You need sleep. And real food, not takeout. And maybe stop going places where people want to stab you.”

“I will.” He kissed the top of her head, quick and sweet, then stepped back. “Go to bed. You look worse than I do.”

She rolled her eyes but headed toward the guest room anyway, pausing in the hallway. “If Alexei’s people show up, Ilya, don’t play hero. Just run. We can start over somewhere else.”

“I know.”

He watched her disappear, then turned back to the windows. The city was waking below him: cars crawling along Rue Saint-Paul, the river catching the weak morning light. Montreal felt safer than Moscow ever had, but it was still temporary. Everything was temporary until Alexei was dealt with.

Ilya walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light. The mirror showed a man who looked more tired than cocky tonight: shadows under his eyes, the new cut already bruising, old scars on his ribs and back pale against his skin. He turned on the shower, let the water run hot, and stepped under the spray, hissing when the heat hit the open wound.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to the hospital. To Shane Hollander standing over him, gloved hands gentle but sure, that serious little frown between his eyebrows, the way his cheeks flushed when Ilya mentioned the freckles. There had been something there, a spark Ilya recognized instantly. Shane had tried to hide it behind professionalism, but Ilya knew that look. He’d seen it in mirrors, in dark corners of clubs, in stolen moments with people who wanted him but pretended otherwise.

Shane was different, though. The kind of man who probably ironed his scrubs and color-coded his calendar. Ilya wanted to crack that control wide open, see what spilled out. Wanted to get close enough to count every freckle, make the doctor blush until he forgot how to be serious.

He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, water pounding his back. The shoulder burned, but the pain felt far away now, overtaken by a sharper heat low in his belly. His cock was already hard; he wrapped his hand around it and stroked once, slow and firm. In his mind Shane was on his knees in the steam, steady surgeon’s hands braced on Ilya’s thighs, brown eyes looking up, so serious, flushed, hungry. Ilya pictured that perfect mouth sliding over him instead of his fist: warm, wet heat, the soft drag of tongue, Shane taking him deep with the same focused precision he used to close wounds.

He tightened his grip, hips rocking forward into the fantasy, breath catching as he imagined Shane swallowing around him, freckled cheeks hollowed, a quiet moan vibrating against skin. The pleasure coiled fast and brutal; he came with a choked sound, spilling over his fist in hot pulses while Shane’s name stayed silent behind his teeth.

Ilya stayed under the spray a moment longer, letting the water rinse everything away, then shut it off and stepped out.

He dried himself carefully, avoiding the bandages, pulled on clean sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, and collapsed onto the king-sized bed. The apartment was quiet, Svetlana asleep, the city humming faintly outside. He stared at the ceiling until exhaustion dragged him under like a heavy tide.

When he woke, it was to the sharp stink of something burning.

His eyes snapped open. The clock blinked 12:47 p.m. Smoke drifted under the bedroom door.

He shot upright, shoulder screaming, heart slamming. For one stupid second he thought the building was on fire, that Alexei’s people had finally found them and decided to burn them alive. He grabbed the bedside lamp like a club and moved fast and quiet down the hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood, the smell thickening until it coated his throat.

The open-plan layout gave him a clear view of the kitchen before he reached it. Svetlana stood at the stove, spatula in hand, shoulders tense, dark hair falling out of its bun in frustrated wisps. She was scowling at the pan like it had personally insulted her. Smoke curled toward the ceiling fan, the burner still roaring on high.

Ilya dropped the lamp on the console table with a dull thud, crossed the room in three strides, and reached around her to kill the gas. Then he hooked his good arm around her waist and tugged her back a step, away from the disaster.

“Are you trying to burn the whole building down?” His voice was rough from sleep, thick with accent and gravel, half amusement, half real alarm.

Svetlana spun in his hold, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing. She still clutched the spatula like a weapon, pointing it at his chest. “I was trying to make you something edible for once, you ungrateful bastard,” she snapped, this time in English, the pout clear under the anger.

Ilya stared at her, then a low, warm laugh rolled out of him, deep and genuine, the kind that hurt his stitches but felt too good to stop. “What the hell were you even doing? We just got here, Lana. Give the building at least a week before you torch it.”

She crossed her arms, lower lip jutting. “I was trying to feed you properly. Not that takeout garbage you live on. You need protein, vitamins, something that didn’t come in a greasy box at three a.m.”

He wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “Protein? That was supposed to be protein? It looks like you murdered a fish and then set the corpse on fire.”

“It was salmon,” she muttered, glancing at the pan like it had betrayed her. “With vegetables. I saw it on TikTok. Twenty minutes on medium, I turned it up because I thought it would be faster.”

“Faster,” he repeated, grin widening until it pulled at the stitches above his eyebrow. “You turned salmon into charcoal in record time. Impressive.”

Her pout deepened, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re such an asshole, Ilya. I stay up all night worried you’re dead in a ditch, then I try to do something nice, and you laugh.”

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, and reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you’re adorable when you’re pissed, and because I haven’t seen you try to cook since that disaster back home. Remember? The exploding soup?”

She swatted his hand away, but gently. “That was your fault. You distracted me.”

“I kissed your neck. You forgot about the pot.”

A reluctant smile broke through. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re the best thing I’ve got left,” he said, softer.

He pulled her into a careful one-armed hug, then dipped lower and kissed her properly—slow, lips parting hers with easy familiarity. His tongue brushed hers in a lazy slide, and she made a small sound, hands fisting the front of his T-shirt. He pressed her gently back against the counter, hips slotting against hers, deepening the kiss until the smoke and ruined food faded into nothing.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads rested together. “You’re still a terrible cook,” he whispered against her mouth.

“And you’re still a bastard,” she muttered, but her fingers had already slipped under his shirt, tracing careful patterns over his abs.

He grinned, stole one more quick, filthy kiss, then eased back. “Move. Let me fix this before the sprinklers go off.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes but slid sideways, hopping onto the counter beside him, legs swinging, watching as he dumped the blackened mess, wiped the pan, and started over—eggs, onions, peppers, cheese, butter. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d learned to cook out of pure survival.

“You’re showing off,” she teased.

“Maybe a little.” He tossed onions into the pan with a satisfying sizzle. “I’m saving us both.”

She stuck her tongue out but stayed close, stealing a slice of pepper when he wasn’t looking. When he plated two generous omelets, he slid one over to her.

“Eat,” he said. “Before I change my mind and make you eat your salmon.”

She took a bite, eyes closing in exaggerated bliss. “Okay, fine. You win. This is better than TikTok salmon.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, shoulders brushing, the city humming beyond the windows.

Later, when the plates were empty, Svetlana wandered to the sofa, opened her laptop, and fixed him with a mischievous look.

“So,” she said, fingers already flying across the keys. “Tell me about this doctor. The one with the freckles. You mentioned him like three times last night, even when you were half-dead.”

Ilya dropped down beside her. “Shane Hollander. Dr. Shane Hollander. Trauma surgeon at Montreal General.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Trauma? Fancy. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Within moments she had his Instagram open. She scrolled through the handful of posts and huffed.

“Boring as fuck. This man has the social media presence of a corporate spreadsheet. No vacation pics, no dog, no partner, nothing. Who lives like this?”

Ilya stared at the screen, a slow, predatory smile curving his lips. “Maybe he’s just waiting for someone to make it interesting.”

Svetlana closed the laptop with a snap and leaned against his good shoulder, smirking. “If you’re volunteering for the job, try not to get yourself killed chasing him.”

Ilya laughed quietly, arm sliding around her waist, pulling her closer. He pressed a lazy kiss to the top of her head and let his mind drift back to pale hospital lights, steady hands, and freckles he still wanted to count.

A week slipped by in a haze of careful paranoia and restless nights. Late November in Montreal had turned viciously cold, the wind off the river carrying a bite that made Ilya’s shoulder ache worse than it should, even though the stitches were holding clean. No infection, thanks to Shane Hollander’s careful work.

He’d tried to play it smart. No more basement brawls, no more pushing his luck in places that smelled like cheap beer and worse decisions. Instead he spent the days tracking Alexei’s men the only way he knew: discreet calls to old Moscow contacts, encrypted messages through Svetlana’s secure channels, late-night drives around the city to spot familiar faces in unfamiliar cars. They were here, but they hadn’t moved yet. The pressure was building, though, like a storm rolling in over the water.

Between surveillance runs and the endless waiting, he found excuses to swing by Montreal General more than once. He’d park across the street, hood up against the sleet, and watch the staff entrance from his rented SUV. A couple of times he even walked into the lobby like he belonged there, asked the desk clerk in his thick accent if Dr. Hollander was on shift. The answers were always polite deflections—“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t release staff schedules,” or “He’s not available for walk-in consults.” Ilya wasn’t about to push hard enough to attract hospital security or worse, the police.

He was almost ready to ask Svetlana to dig deeper—pull shift schedules from some hacked hospital database—when his burner phone buzzed on the kitchen counter that afternoon. Unknown number, local area code. He answered anyway.

“Rozanov,” a rough voice said, thick with the same Eastern European grit that still colored Ilya’s speech when he let his guard down. “It’s Viktor. From the club. You remember?”

Ilya leaned against the counter, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. Viktor ran one of the quieter underground spots in the city—a dim basement warehouse, no cameras, cash only, the kind of crowd that didn’t ask questions. Ilya had been there twice before, once to blow off steam, once to gather intel on local players who might be connected to Alexei’s network. Viktor owed him a favor from the second time.

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Fight tonight. Good one. New guy from Toronto thinks he’s untouchable. You in? Same rules, same cut, starts at ten.”

Ilya stared out at the gray sky. He should say no. He should stay low, keep his head down, wait for the next lead on his brother. But the words that came out were different.

“Count me in.”

Viktor laughed, short and approving. “Knew you would. See you there.”

The line went dead.

Ilya set the phone down slowly, heart picking up speed. The idea hit him all at once, stupid, brilliant, and dangerous in equal measure, the kind of plan that felt inevitable the second it formed. He could go to the fight, let things get messy, take a few hits on purpose. Maybe more than a few. Walk out with fresh cuts and bruises that needed real attention, something that would land him back in the trauma bay at Montreal General.

And if he timed it right, if he showed up late enough in the night when the night-shift crew was on, maybe he’d end up under Shane Hollander’s steady hands again.

It was reckless. Beyond reckless. Svetlana would kill him if she found out. Alexei’s people could be anywhere, watching for exactly this kind of slip. One wrong punch, one guy with a knife instead of fists, and it could all go sideways fast.

But the alternative, of sitting in this quiet apartment, waiting for the next anonymous threat, staring at Shane’s boring Instagram grid like some lovesick teenager was starting to feel worse than any fight.

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, careful of the fading stitches on his brow. He looked at the clock: just past four. Plenty of time to eat, rest the shoulder, tape it up properly before he headed out.

He was going to do it. He was going to get hurt on purpose.

Chapter 3: Basement Rules

Chapter Summary

Shane held the position for a few long seconds, ensuring the set, his face so close Ilya could count the lashes framing those eyes, feel the subtle tremor in his hands that might've been fatigue or something else entirely, the air between them charged like static before a storm. "No," Shane said simply, but his voice was lower now, almost a murmur, eyes locked on Ilya's with that unyielding stare that only made the rejection sting sweeter.

Ilya licked his lips, tasting salt and blood, pushing just a little more because the way Shane's breath hitched told him he was getting under that controlled skin. "Fine, no dinner. But you know, if you keep saying no, I'll just have to keep finding ways to see you. Creative ways."

The club smelled exactly like every sketchy underground fight spot Ilya had ever been in: old sweat, cheap beer, cigarette smoke baked into the concrete, and that faint metallic tang of blood that never really goes away. The warehouse in Mile End was barely a venue—bare bulbs hanging from rafters, a ring marked with duct tape and worn gym mats, folding chairs scattered for people who paid cash to watch guys beat the hell of each other. No gloves, no mouthguards unless you brought your own, no real medic beyond some dude with a first-aid kit who probably learned everything from YouTube. It was perfect. Exactly the kind of dumb chaos Ilya was craving tonight.

He got there early and watched the first two fights from the back wall, hood up, arms crossed. The first was quick and sloppy, two guys who hated each other more than they hated losing, wild haymakers, no footwork. Over in under two minutes when one landed a clean hook to the temple. The second was slower: stocky prison-tattooed guy versus a kid with some old Muay Thai experience. The kid still lost, dropped hard in the third round by a knee to the ribs. Half the crowd winced; the other half cheered. Ilya didn’t cheer. He just watched, reading the room, feeling how the energy changed when real blood showed up. His own blood was already buzzing under his skin, impatient.

He was leaning against the cold brick, rolling out his good shoulder, when a clean, floral scent cut through the stink. Svetlana appeared beside him, —dark coat buttoned high, hair stuffed under a knit cap, eyes scanning every face like she was memorizing them.

Ilya’s stomach dropped for half a second before irritation kicked in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered, low enough that only she heard.

She kept watching the ring, where two guys were dragging the last loser out by his arms. “Same thing as you, apparently. Watching idiots try to kill each other.”

“I asked you a question, Lana.”

She finally looked at him, eyes sharp under the cap brim. “If you’re gonna get yourself killed tonight, the least I can do is be here to drag your body home.”

Ilya exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.” She tilted her head, studying him the way she studied code she couldn’t crack yet. “You’ve been disappearing for hours at weird times all week. Coming back with that look, like you’re chasing something you won’t tell me about. If it’s Alexei’s people, I’d rather know now than find out when they’re dumping you in a ditch.”

Guilt flickered through him, quick and hot. She wasn’t completely wrong. He was chasing something. Just not his brother.

“It’s not Alexei,” he said quieter. “I just needed to fight. Clear my head.”

Svetlana’s mouth twisted. “Right. You needed to fight.”

Before he could answer, Viktor climbed onto a milk crate and bellowed, “Next up! Rozanov versus Moreau! Three rounds, no time limit, stop when someone quits or can’t get up! Let’s go!”

The crowd surged, roaring as people pressed closer. Ilya pushed off the wall, rolling his neck. “Stay back,” he told her. “Don’t get involved.”

She grabbed his wrist, fingers tight. “If you go down hard, I’m not waiting for permission to drag you out.”

He met her eyes—dark, worried, pissed in that special Lana way—and gave the smallest nod. Then he pulled free, stepped into the circle, peeled off his hoodie, and tossed it toward the edge. Someone caught it.

The “ring” was tape on concrete. No ropes. Moreau waited: six-two, heavy shoulders, tattoos up both arms, smirking like this would be easy. Ilya didn’t smile back. He bounced once on his toes, shook his arms out, waited for the whistle.

Some guy with a clipboard and a cigarette rattled off the rules in a bored monotone. 

“No eye gouges, no groin shots, no small-joint stuff. Everything else is fair. Touch gloves if you want. Fight when I say. Stop when I say. Got it?”

They bumped fists. Barely.

Whistle.

First round was easy. Ilya moved light, chin tucked, letting Moreau swing wide and miss. Slipped inside twice—clean jab to the ribs, hook to the jaw that rocked the bigger guy. Crowd liked it. Moreau growled, came harder. Ilya picked shots, kept control. He could’ve ended it early. Didn’t. Let the round go the distance, breathing steady, sweat starting despite the cold.

Second round he changed it up.

Let Moreau land a few. Glancing hook that split skin on his cheekbone, body shot that made his ribs hum. Didn’t block on purpose, rolled with them, let the pain bloom so it’d look real later. Moreau got cocky, started throwing heavier, slower. Ilya smiled around the copper in his mouth. Good.

Third round he went for what he actually wanted.

Dropped his hands just enough. Moreau saw it, took the bait. Right cross came straight down the pipe, caught Ilya square on the nose. The crack echoed in his skull. Blood poured hot and thick, running over his lips, dripping on his chest. Iron and salt flooded his mouth. For one perfect second the world shrank to that bright point of pain. Exactly what he came for. A nose swollen, bleeding enough for real attention, stitches, ice, steady hands pressing gauze while Shane Hollander frowned and asked, “What the hell happened?”

Ilya laughed, sharp and bloody, teeth red, eyes bright. The crowd roared louder.

Then he moved.

Step inside, feint left, drive right. Left hook clean to the temple, short uppercut snapping Moreau’s head back. The bigger man staggered, eyes glassy. Ilya stepped in, knee to the ribs, straight right like a hammer. Moreau dropped face-first, out cold.

Whistle. Crowd exploded.

Ilya stood breathing hard, blood dripping from his chin, grinning like a maniac, teeth crimson. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing red, and looked toward the edge.

Svetlana was still there, arms crossed, face pale under the lights, eyes locked on him—fury and something close to fear mixed together.

He gave her a small bloody smile and headed for his hoodie.

He’d done it.

Now he just had to reach the hospital before the adrenaline crashed and the real pain hit.

His nose felt like someone shoved a hot poker up it, already swollen, throbbing with his heartbeat, fresh blood trickling warm over his lip and chin. Every breath pulled knives through the cartilage, but the pain was clean, bright, exactly the ugly he wanted.

He wiped his mouth on his forearm, smearing red across sweat-slick skin, and started toward the wall. Svetlana appeared in front of him like a storm.

She grabbed his bicep, hard enough to twinge his healing shoulder and yanked him toward the shadowed corner near the exit. Her face was pale, eyes wide and furious.

“What the actual fuck was that?” she hissed, voice low but shaking with it. “You dropped your hands. You just stood there and let him smash your face in. I saw it, Ilya. Don’t even try to bullshit me.”

He let her drag him until they were out of the main crush, then gently pried her fingers off. Leaned back against cold brick, tilted his head to keep blood out of his throat, and shrugged like it was nothing.

“You’re seeing things. Guy got lucky. I got sloppy. Happens.”

“Bullshit.” She stepped closer, close enough he could smell her shampoo through the warehouse stink. “You controlled the first round, then started eating punches on purpose. I’ve watched you fight enough to know when you’re playing. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ilya met her eyes for a long beat, grin fading to something tired.

“Nothing’s wrong. Needed a real one tonight. Something to shake loose. That’s all.”

Svetlana’s jaw worked like she was chewing words she couldn’t say here. Then she grabbed his T-shirt, careful of the blood and pulled him toward the metal exit door.

“Come on. We’re going to a doctor. Now.”

She towed him into the biting November air. Cold slapped his face, stinging cuts, making his eyes water, but it cleared some haze. Streetlights buzzed, turning the alley orange and shadow. A couple smokers by the dumpster gave them space when they saw his face.

They reached her beat-up black Civic. Ilya spoke before she could open the door.

“Montreal General.”

She stopped dead, keys in hand. “What? No. There’s a walk-in ten minutes from here. We’re not driving across the city with your face looking like this.”

He met her glare calmly, switched to Russian, low and final. “Montreal General. That’s where we’re going.”

She stared, then laughed, sharp, no humor. Unlocked the car, dropped in, slammed the door.You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Get in before I leave you here to bleed out like the dramatic asshole you are.”

Ilya slid into the passenger seat. Svetlana thrust a wad of fast-food napkins at him. 

“Head back. Pinch it. And don’t bleed all over my seats. I just detailed this thing.”

He took them. Pressure hurt like hell, white sparks behind his eyes, but he welcomed it.

She peeled out, tires chirping, weaving through late-night traffic. Didn’t speak again until the highway ramp, city lights spreading below.

“You’re not telling me everything,” she said quietly. “And I hate it when you do that.”

Ilya closed his eyes against the ache. “I know. I’ll tell you. Later.”

She didn’t push. Just turned up the heat and kept driving toward the glowing Montreal General sign.

The drive felt longer than it should. Svetlana pushed the Civic hard. Heater blasted burnt-dust air. Every pothole jolted his face, making his eyes water. Blood soaked through napkins twice; he kept swapping them, head back, swallowing copper runoff.

She kept glancing over. “Keep your head up. Press harder. You’re dripping again.”

“I’m pressing,” he mumbled, voice thick. “Feels like I’m holding my face together with paper towels.”

She huffed, took a sharp turn into the emergency entrance. Red EMERGENCY sign washed the dash bloody. She parked crooked, killed the engine, yanked his door open, grabbed his good arm, half-helped half-dragged him out.

“Move your ass before you pass out on the sidewalk.”

Ilya laughed wetly, fresh blood bubbling. “Romantic.”

“Shut up and walk.”

Automatic doors whooshed. Waiting room half-full, tired parents, crying toddler, old guy with ice on his wrist, hockey guys with bar-fight marks. Svetlana marched to triage.

“He needs a doctor,” she told the nurse. “Nose broken, bleeding like crazy.”

Nurse took one look at Ilya’s swollen bloody mess and hit a button. Tall lanky guy in navy scrubs pushed through— Pike. Easy half-smile, tired sharp eyes. Didn’t seem to recognize Ilya at first.

“Alright, big guy,” Hayden said. “On the stretcher. Sit here first—easy.”

Ilya eased down, legs dangling, still clutching napkins. Hayden snapped on gloves, grabbed fresh gauze.

“Head back, pinch here. Let me see.”

Svetlana hovered. Hayden glanced at her. “Friend or family?”

“Both,” she answered.

Hayden chuckled tiredly, peeled napkins away. Cold air hit raw blood; Ilya hissed. Nose crooked left, skin split, bruising already under both eyes.

“Yeah, solid break. Probably displaced. X-rays, maybe ENT if septum’s wrecked. Brick or what?”

“Fist,” Ilya said nasal. “Good one.”

Hayden nodded, reached for ice pack. “Lie back. I’ll get a doctor.”

Before he could leave, Ilya caught his wrist—gentle but firm.

“Hollander,” he rasped. “I want Dr. Hollander.”

Hayden paused, eyebrows up. “Sorry?”

“Dr. Shane Hollander. Trauma guy.”

Hayden blinked, then recognition hit. Eyes narrowed curiously. “You’ve been here before.”

Ilya didn’t answer. Just held the gaze.

Hayden nodded once. “I’ll see if he’s on. No promises. Lie still.”

He disappeared. Svetlana brushed damp hair off Ilya’s forehead, gentle.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

She finally broke the silence, her voice low and teasing but laced with that edge she got when she was piecing things together too fast for his liking. “So, you broke your nose on purpose just to see Dr boring? That’s your big plan?”

Ilya cracked one eye open, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his busted lip despite the pain. “He has name, and it was a coincidence. “Fight happen. Nose break. Hospital."

“Coincidence, my ass.” She leaned against the side of the gurney, arms crossing again, but her eyes were sparkling now, the anger from the car fading into something closer to exasperated amusement. “After we get out of here, we’re having a long talk about healthier ways to get someone’s attention."

They were still there—her hand on his shoulder—when doors opened again. 

Shane Hollander stepped through, white coat over scrubs, stethoscope around neck, looking serious and focused. Hayden trailed with clipboard.

Shane’s eyes landed on Ilya. For a split second surprise flashed—eyes widening—before he locked it down, strode over, took the chart.

“Dr. Shane Hollander, trauma surgeon. Let’s take a look.”

Ilya watched his heart do a stupid flip as Shane leaned in, peeled gauze back. Cold stung; fresh blood welled. Shane’s fingers—cool, precise—probed the bridge, checking displacement, feeling for crepitus. Hurt like hell, sparks shooting through Ilya’s skull, but he didn’t flinch. Just breathed short through his mouth, tasting iron.

Shane worked methodically—tilting head, penlight in eyes, pressing orbital bones. After a minute he sat back.

“What happened?”

“Little fight,” Ilya said mangled. “Nothing big.”

Shane paused. “Little fight again?”

Ilya smiled slow, bloody. “So you remember me.”

Shane rolled his eyes, grabbed fresh gauze and saline, started cleaning the split. “Not every day a six-five Russian walks in covered in blood. Twice in two weeks? Sticks.”

Ilya’s smile widened. “Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov.”

Svetlana cleared her throat. Ilya glanced at her. “And this is Svetlana. My friend.”

Shane nodded politely, kept irrigating—cold pink saline running down Ilya’s neck. “You need anything? Blood on you?”

She smirked. “Nah. All this mess is from this idiot.”

Shane nodded. “I’m cleaning this, packing to stop bleeding, then X-rays. Might reset if bad. You can wait outside—coffee in the waiting room.”

Svetlana hesitated, eyes flicking to Ilya.

“It’s okay,” he said in Russian, soft. “Go. I’m fine.”

Hayden gestured. “I’ll show you vending machines. Best coffee after midnight.”

She gave Ilya one last look—warning and amusement—then followed Hayden out.

The bay felt smaller. 

Just Ilya and Shane under bright lights, faint saline drip in the sink. Shane kept working—dabbing antiseptic that burned like fire, making Ilya’s breath hitch. Pain grounded him, but so did Shane’s fingers through gloves, the quiet heat of his presence. Ilya lay there, staring at flickering fluorescents, bare chest cooling. 

Shane finally peeled bloody gloves, tossed them, grabbed chart.

“We’ll wheel you for X-rays. Make sure nothing’s shattered. You good to move?”

Ilya pushed up on elbows, ignored nausea as blood shifted, wiped chin, swung legs off. “I’m good. Lead the way, Doc.”

Shane arched a brow, faint amusement—or annoyance—then gestured. Ilya followed down the hall to X-ray. Stripped shirt when told, lay on cold table. Tech positioned plates. Shane watched from corner, arms crossed, eyes tracing bruises, old scars. Ilya felt the gaze like heat.

Back in the bay, the X-rays popped up on the wall-mounted screen a few minutes later, glowing blue and white with the ghostly outline of Ilya's skull, the nose clearly cracked right down the middle, the bone jagged like a lightning bolt frozen in place. Shane leaned in close to the monitor, his profile sharp under the lights, freckles standing out against his skin as he traced the fracture with one finger on the glass. "Okay, Mr. Rozanov. Clean break, no fragments floating around, septum's deviated but not destroyed. We can reset it here—no need for surgery unless it shifts again. It's gonna hurt, though. You want some local anesthetic, or are you the tough-guy type who wants to feel it all?"

Ilya eased back onto the gurney, propping himself up on his elbows again, his bare chest still exposed and cooling under the AC vents, blood crusting along his upper lip as he met Shane's eyes with a slow, deliberate grin that pulled at the split skin and made fresh warmth trickle down. "Feel it all, Doc. Wouldn't want to miss a thing with you handling me."

Shane paused, hand over tools, cheeks flushing faintly. Snapped fresh gloves, rolled stool between Ilya’s knees. "Save the lines for someone who's interested, Mr. Rozanov. I'm here to fix your face."

Ilya chuckled low in his throat, the sound rough and wet, leaning back but keeping his eyes locked on Shane's as the doctor tilted his head gently, fingers slipping under his jaw to hold him steady, the touch sending sparks skittering down Ilya's spine despite the gloves. Shane worked the speculum into one nostril first, the cold metal prying open the swollen passage with a pressure that built slow and brutal, stretching torn cartilage and making Ilya's eyes water, tears mixing with the blood that started flowing fresh and hot again. He gripped the edges of the gurney hard enough to make his knuckles whiten, the pain blooming bright and graphic, like someone was slowly twisting a knife inside his sinuses, but he didn't break eye contact, watching the way Shane's brows furrowed deeper, the concentration making his lips part just slightly. "If it hurts that bad, maybe give me your number. You know, in case I need more... medical help later."

Shane didn't flinch, just kept packing the other nostril with gauze soaked in some numbing spray that barely touched the fire raging inside, his fingers brushing Ilya's cheek in a way that felt too deliberate to be accidental, the heat of his skin bleeding through the thin barrier. He leaned in even closer, breath ghosting over Ilya's face as he positioned the forceps, the metal cold and unyielding as it slid deep into the ruined passages, gripping the displaced bone with a click that echoed in Ilya's skull. “Call the hospital if you need a doctor. That’s how it works.”

Ilya sucked sharp breath as Shane twisted, cartilage grinding, wet crunch vibrating skull. Black spots exploded in vision. Pushed through, voice strained. “What if I want a specific doctor? One with steady hands and freckles I can’t stop staring at?”

Shane’s grip tightened, thumb pressing under Ilya’s ear, lingering electric. Twisted controlled—bone resisting, then popping with sickening slide. Pain exploded raw, blood flooding mouth. Shane held him, fingers stroking jaw almost unconsciously, breath faster, cheeks flushed.

“I don’t do house calls, Mr. Rozanov.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and blood, Shane's face inches from Ilya's, close enough that Ilya could see the pulse jumping in his neck, the way his pupils dilated just a hair under the lights. Ilya leaned into the pain, letting it fuel the heat coiling low in his belly, his voice dropping to a rough whisper as Shane worked the bone further, the grinding sensation vibrating through his entire skull, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks now. How about dinner, then? No house calls, just you and me. I make a great tuna melt sandwich, or maybe we could skip straight to—"

"Enough," Shane cut him off, voice firm but with a rough edge that said maybe he wasn't as unaffected as he pretended, his thumbs digging in a touch harder as he aligned the bone. "I'm not interested, Mr. Rozanov. Focus on not bleeding everywhere."

Ilya didn't back down, his grin turning wicked even as the pressure mounted, the cartilage grinding back into place with a sickening, muffled pop that made his vision white out for a second, tears streaming involuntary down his cheeks. "Come on, Doc. One dinner. What's the harm? I promise I'll behave... mostly."

Shane held the position for a few long seconds, ensuring the set, his face so close Ilya could count the lashes framing those eyes, feel the subtle tremor in his hands that might've been fatigue or something else entirely, the air between them charged like static before a storm. "No," Shane said simply, but his voice was lower now, almost a murmur, eyes locked on Ilya's with that unyielding stare that only made the rejection sting sweeter.

Ilya licked his lips, tasting salt and blood, pushing just a little more because the way Shane's breath hitched told him he was getting under that controlled skin. "Fine, no dinner. But you know, if you keep saying no, I'll just have to keep finding ways to see you. Creative ways."

Shane stood, tossing the used tools into the trash with a clatter, his expression smoothing back to that professional mask, but not before Ilya caught the quick glance down at his bare chest, the faint flush still lingering on his neck. He rolled the stool away, grabbing the chart to jot final notes, voice steady but with an undercurrent that said the tension wasn't gone, just banked. "We're done here, Mr. Rozanov. Nose is set, keep it packed for 48 hours, ice it, no blowing or picking. Pain meds at the desk on your way out. And try not to come back anytime soon."

Ilya swung his legs off the gurney, standing a little too close as he pulled his ruined shirt back on, the fabric sticking to fresh blood and sweat, his eyes never leaving Shane's. "See you soon, Doc?"

Shane met his gaze one last time, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned toward the doors, but his voice was firm, laced with that same spark. "Hope not, Mr. Rozanov. Really hope not." He pushed through the swinging doors without looking back, leaving Ilya standing there, nose packed and throbbing, but grinning like he'd won anyway, the heat of the exchange lingering on his skin long after the pain started to fade.

Chapter 4: Closing time

Chapter Summary

He wasn’t going anywhere.

And deep down, he knew Shane wasn’t either. Not really. Not after the way the doctor had kissed him, like a man finally allowing himself to fall off a ledge he’d been standing on the edge of for years.

Ilya had never been very good at walking away from a fight he wanted to win.

Chapter Notes

Shane was counting the minutes, to go home, the clock above the triage desk read 6:50am., and every tick felt like it was mocking him. Twelve straight hours, and all he could think about was the shower waiting at home, the cold beer in the fridge, and approximately fourteen hours of uninterrupted sleep before his next shift started. He was already mentally halfway out the door when Hayden appeared at the end of the hallway, walking backward like he was leading a parade, that shit-eating grin across his face.

“Yo, Hollander,” Hayden called, loud enough that a couple of nurses glanced over. “Your favorite patient’s back.”

Shane stopped dead, one hand still holding the chart he’d been about to sign off. Favorite patient could only mean one of two things in this place: someone so obnoxious the whole department avoided them, or… 

He turned the corner into bay six and there he was. Ilya Rozanov, sprawled on the gurney, one leg dangling off the side, the other stretched out with a nasty gash running down the outside of his calf. Fresh blood had soaked through the gauze someone had slapped on in a hurry, and there was that same damn smirk, cocky, and way too comfortable. His hoodie was bunched up under his head like a pillow, and even with the fresh stitches still holding his nose together from last time, he managed to look annoyingly put-together.

Shane exhaled through his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ilya’s grin widened, slow and deliberate. “Miss me, Doc?”

“Not even a little.” Shane dropped the chart on the tray table and pulled on fresh gloves, snapping them against his wrists hard. “What is it this time? And don’t say you fell.”

“Bar fight,” Ilya said cheerfully. “Guy had broken bottle. I had bad timing. Simple.”

Shane crouched to get a better look at the laceration. Deep, definitely needed stitches, probably a couple layers to close the muscle underneath. He pressed gloved fingers along the edges, checking for tendon damage, and Ilya hissed but didn’t pull away. Up close, Shane could smell the faint mix of sweat, bar soap, and that clean, woodsy cologne the guy always seemed to wear no matter how much blood he was covered in. Shane hated that it was distracting.

“You know I’m required to ask,” Shane said, keeping his tone flat and professional. “Any chance this was self-inflicted? Or are you just really committed to making my nights insufferable?”

Ilya laughed, low and rough. “If I wanted attention that bad, I’d just ask you out again.”

Shane straightened up, peeling off the bloodied gloves and tossing them in the bin. “Keep showing up here looking like this and I’m calling the cops next time or psych. Your choice.”

“You’d miss me,” Ilya said, eyes bright. “Admit it.”

“I’d sleep better.”

Another laugh, softer this time. Ilya shifted on the gurney, wincing as the movement tugged the cut. “Easy way to make me disappear, Doc. One dinner. I swear I’ll behave. No more late-night visits. Scout’s honor.”

Shane snorted. “I doubt you ever were a scout.”

“True. But I’m a great dinner date. I cook. I clean up after. I even put the seat down.”

Shane shook his head, turning to grab suture supplies from the cart. “Not happening.”

He was reaching for the lidocaine when his foot caught on the wheel of the rolling stool someone had left in the wrong place. The whole world tilted for a second—exhaustion, shitty lighting, one misstep—and Shane stumbled forward, arms windmilling.

Ilya moved fast, his good arm shot out, hooking around Shane’s waist and yanking him in close before he could face-plant into the gurney. For one stupid heartbeat they were pressed together: Shane’s chest against Ilya’s side, Ilya’s hand splayed wide and warm at the small of Shane’s back, steadying him like it was nothing. Shane could feel the hard lines of muscle under the thin hoodie, the heat radiating off Ilya’s skin, the way his breath hitched just slightly when their bodies lined up.

Shane froze. Ilya didn’t let go right away.

“Careful, Doc,” Ilya murmured, voice pitched low, right against Shane’s ear. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt on my account.”

Shane’s pulse was suddenly loud in his own ears. He planted a hand on Ilya’s shoulder—meant to push away, but it lingered there a second too long, feeling the solid heat of him. Then he straightened, stepping back, cheeks burning under the lights.

“Thanks,” he muttered, brushing his coat straight like that would fix the way his skin was still buzzing where Ilya had touched him.

Ilya’s smile was slow, knowing. “Anytime.”

Shane cleared his throat, turning back to the suture kit. He glanced at the clock 06:55. Five minutes until Hayden was off. Perfect.

He poked his head out of the bay. “Pike!”

Hayden appeared almost instantly, still grinning like he knew exactly what was about to happen.

“Mr. Rozanov needs sutures,” Shane said, voice perfectly neutral. “You’re up. I’m clocking out.”

Hayden’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” Shane stripped off his gloves, tossed them in the bin, and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. He looked back at Ilya one last time, letting a small, wicked smile slip through. “Have fun, boys. Don’t let him sweet-talk you into anything stupid.”

Ilya laughed outright, the sound following Shane down the hall. Shane didn’t look back.

Shane changed out of his scrubs in record time, the locker room buzz doing nothing to quiet the low thrum still vibrating under his skin. He shoved his damp clothes into his bag, yanked on jeans and a worn hoodie, and headed straight for the parking garage without glancing back at the glowing ER windows. The cold slap of early morning air hit him like a slap as he pushed through the exit door, sharp enough to finally clear some of the fog from his head.

He spotted his car from twenty paces away, but also a tall Russian leaning against the driver’s side door like he belonged there.

Ilya had his arms crossed, one foot kicked back against the tire, the fresh bandage on his calf already spotting red through the gauze. The streetlamp overhead caught the pale gold in his curls and turned his eyes almost luminous. He looked tired, bruised, and entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been stitched up for the second time in two weeks.

Shane stopped short, keys biting into his palm.

“Get off my car,” he said, voice flat.

Ilya didn’t move. Just tilted his head, that slow, crooked smile crawling across his mouth again. “One dinner, Dr. Hollander. I’m asking nice this time.”

“I’m exhausted. I want to go home. I want you to disappear from my ER and stop showing up looking like you might drop dead.” Shane took another step closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not playing.”

Ilya studied him for a long beat, something softer flickering behind the usual cocky gleam. “You’re curious though.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. He hated that the words landed. Hated more that they were true. This dangerous, reckless, infuriating man had managed to wedge himself under Shane’s skin like a splinter he couldn’t ignore. Every sarcastic comeback, every lingering look, every casual brush of contact felt like it was peeling back another layer of the careful, controlled life Shane had spent years building.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “One coffee. That’s it. You get your coffee, then you vanish. No more midnight stitch jobs. No more ‘accidental’ bar fights that land you in my bay. Deal?”

Ilya’s smile bloomed, slow and victorious. “Deal.”

He pushed off the car and took a step toward the sidewalk like he was about to start walking.

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not here. Get in.”

Ilya paused, eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. Then he laughed a rough, pleased laugh and circled around to the passenger side without another word.

The drive was quiet. Montreal at dawn was still half-asleep, streets glossy with last night’s rain. Shane kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes forward, hyper-aware of the long legs stretched out beside him, the faint scent of antiseptic and woodsmoke filling the car.

When they reached his building—a narrow, red-brick walk-up in a quiet corner of the Plateau—he parked in the back alley and killed the engine. Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Ilya murmured, “Nice place.”

“It’s a rental.” Shane got out, slammed the door, and led the way up the narrow stairs without looking back.

Inside, the apartment was small, tidy, almost painfully ordinary: black couch, bookshelves stuffed with medical journals and the occasional worn paperback, one sad-looking plant on the windowsill that was somehow still alive. Shane locked the door behind them with a decisive click.

Ilya turned in a slow circle, taking it all in, then glanced over his shoulder. “You gonna kill me now, Doc?”

Shane leaned back against the door, arms folded. “I'm the one who should be scared.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide. He crossed the space between them in three lazy strides, until Shane could feel the heat rolling off him again. One palm planted beside Shane’s head. Then the other. Caging him in without quite touching.

Shane’s breath caught.

Up close like this, Ilya smelled like hospital antiseptic, the faint copper of drying blood, and something warmer, like cedar, leather, skin. His gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth and lingered there, hungry. He wanted to touch. God, he wanted to touch so badly his fingers flexed against the wood. Wanted to trace the line of Shane’s jaw, drag his thumb across that full bottom lip, press in until Shane opened for him. Wanted to bury his face against the doctor’s neck and breathe him in until the constant noise in his head finally went quiet.

Shane felt the wall at his back and Ilya’s body inches away, solid and radiating heat, and every rational part of his brain screamed that this was a mistake. A spectacular, career-ending, probably life-altering mistake. He should push past him. Should order him out. Should remember every rule he’d ever made about keeping his personal life sterile and separate from the chaos of the trauma bay.

But the hot, insistent, terrifying curiosity curled low in his gut and refused to let go.

He tilted his chin up, meeting those pale blue eyes head-on. “You’ve got twenty minutes. Tell me why you want to see me so bad. Why you keep coming back.”

Ilya’s throat worked. He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

Ilya’s right hand slid down the doorframe, slow, until it hovered just above Shane’s hip. Not touching. Just… there. Close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of his palm through his hoodie. Ilya’s gaze flicked between Shane’s eyes and his mouth again, raw want written all over his face.

“I could show you instead,” he said quietly. “If you let me.”

His fingers flexed, still not making contact, waiting.Waiting for yes. Waiting for permission.

Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure Ilya could hear it. He swallowed once, twice, then, barely above a whisper:

“Show me.”

The apartment felt smaller now, the air thicker, like the walls themselves were leaning in to watch. He’d never done this—not with a man, not like this, not with someone who looked at him the way Ilya was looking at him right now, like Shane was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

He wet his lips, voice coming out rougher than he meant it to.

“I’ve never… I mean, with a guy. I’ve never done this before.”

The admission hung there between them, unguarded. Shane braced himself for teasing, for some cocky Russian one-liner, but Ilya just went still. His eyes softened, the predatory edge melting into something quieter, almost careful. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t pull away. He just nodded once, slow, like he was filing the information away somewhere important.

“Okay,” Ilya murmured. “We go slow. You say stop, I stop. Simple.”

Shane exhaled shakily, not sure whether the reassurance made him feel better or worse. Better, probably. Definitely worse. He was still pinned between the door and Ilya’s body, still drowning in his scent. Every nerve ending felt lit up, screaming, waiting.

Ilya dipped his head, bringing their faces so close their breaths mingled. He didn’t kiss Shane. He just ghosted his lips over Shane’s, a feather-light brush that wasn’t quite contact, teasing the seam of Shane’s mouth with the barest suggestion of pressure. Back and forth, slow, letting the anticipation build until Shane’s lips parted on instinct, chasing the touch he wasn’t getting.

A low, pleased rumble vibrated in Ilya’s chest when he noticed.

“So impatient, Doc,” he whispered, smiling against Shane’s mouth. 

Shane’s face burned. He started to snap something back—anything to regain control—but before the words could form, Ilya closed the last millimeter of distance.

The kiss hit like a shockwave.

Ilya pressed in hard, body slotting against Shane’s from chest to thigh, one big hand sliding around to grip Shane’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to anchor him. The other hand came up to cradle the back of Shane’s head, tilting him into the kiss like he’d been waiting years to do it. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, messy, all teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble against Shane’s jaw. Ilya kissed like he was claiming territory, like he wanted to crawl inside Shane’s skin and stay there.

Shane’s hands hovered uselessly for a second before they landed on Ilya’s shoulders, first to push, maybe, then to pull, clutching at the soft fabric of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His head spun. Everything felt too much: the heat of Ilya’s palm burning through his shirt, the solid wall of muscle pinning him in place, the way Ilya’s thigh nudged between his legs just enough to make his knees threaten to give out.

He’d never been kissed like this.

Never felt this helpless and powerful at the same time.

Ilya broke away just long enough to drag his open mouth along Shane’s jaw, down the side of his neck, breathing hot against his pulse point.

“You taste good,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Better than I imagined.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a gasp. “You’ve been imagining this?”

“Every damn time I saw you.” Ilya nipped lightly at the skin under Shane’s ear, then soothed it with his tongue. “Every time you stitched me up. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me.”

Shane’s fingers tightened in Ilya’s hoodie. He should deny it. Should say something sharp and professional and put distance between them. Instead he tipped his head back against the door, giving Ilya more room, more skin.

Ilya groaned low in his throat and kissed him again, deeper this time, slower, like he was savoring every second now that he finally had permission. His hand on Shane’s waist slid under the hem of his hoodie, rough fingertips skating across bare skin, tracing the dip of his spine.

Shane shivered hard, whole body arching into the touch.

He was nervous and even terrified. One second he was kissing a man—a tall, dangerous, bleeding Russian who kept showing up in his Er like a bad habit—and the next he was realizing he’d driven that same man straight to his own front door and let him inside. What the actual fuck was he doing? He’d spent years building walls so high and so neat that nobody ever got close enough to see the cracks, and now here he was, back flat against his own apartment door, letting Ilya Rozanov map his neck with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

Ilya’s lips dragged hot along the side of Shane’s throat, pausing to press a lingering kiss right over his racing pulse. “You smell so fucking good,” he muttered against the skin, voice thick with that heavy Russian accent that rolled through every syllable like gravel wrapped in velvet.

The words hit Shane like a punch he hadn’t braced for. How had this happened? How had he gone from “one coffee” to “come inside my apartment” in under ten minutes? He didn’t know this man. Not his real job, not why he kept showing up covered in blood. And yet here he was, letting Ilya’s big hands slide under his hoodie again, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above his waistband, making coherent thought impossible.

With every scrap of willpower he had left, he shoved both hands against Ilya’s chest.

“Stop. Back up.”

Ilya froze instantly, mouth still hovering over Shane’s collarbone. He pulled away slowly, hands lifting like he was showing he was unarmed. Those pale blue eyes searched Shane’s face, no smirk this time, just quiet, patient waiting.

Shane dragged in a ragged breath. “The twenty minutes are up. You’re done.”

Ilya tilted his head, one eyebrow quirking. “I didn’t even get my coffee yet.”

“I’m serious.” Shane’s voice cracked on the last word, betraying him. He forced it steady. “You need to leave, and you need to stop coming to my ER. Find another hospital. Another doctor. We’re done.”

For a second Ilya didn’t move. Then he made this small, exaggerated pout—lips pursed, eyes going big and ridiculous—and Shane almost laughed despite himself. 

“Okay, okay.” Ilya raised both hands in surrender, stepping back far enough that the cold air rushed in between them. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Shane stared at him. “I don’t. I don’t know a single fucking thing about you.”

The realization landed like a brick in his stomach. He’d just invited a complete stranger who smelled like danger and looked like trouble, into the only place that was supposed to be safe. His apartment. 

Ilya’s expression softened, just for a heartbeat. He shrugged one shoulder, casual, like it didn’t matter. “That's true.” He trailed off, gave Shane one last hungry long look, then turned toward the door.

Shane didn’t move while Ilya slipped on his boots, didn’t speak while Ilya unlocked the door, didn’t breathe until the door clicked shut behind him.

The silence rushed in fast and heavy.

Shane slid down the door until his ass hit the floor, knees pulled up, forehead dropping to rest on his forearms. The apartment felt suddenly huge and empty. No noise except the low hum of the fridge and the distant honk of a car somewhere blocks away.

He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed.

Shane stayed slumped against the door for what felt like forever, long enough that the muscles in his thighs started to ache from the awkward angle. Eventually he pushed himself up, legs shaky, and shuffled toward the bathroom like an old man. He stripped out of his hoodie and jeans, folded each piece neatly, edges aligned, and set them in a tidy stack on the counter before turning the shower knob all the way to hot. Steam started curling up almost immediately, fogging the mirror.

He was still hard. Painfully, stupidly hard. It had been months—since Rose, probably. They’d ended things quietly, no big blowout, just a tired conversation on her couch where she’d told him, that he was married to the hospital in a way he’d never be married to her. And she’d been right. He hadn’t fought it. Hadn’t even tried to argue. She deserved someone who showed up, not someone who lived in scrubs and texted apologies from the OR lounge at 3 a.m. The breakup felt fair. Almost noble. Now the memory just made his stomach twist with something darker.

Because if Rozanov decided to cause trouble, if he walked back into the ER and decided to make a scene? Shane’s whole carefully constructed life could unravel in a single shift. Had anyone seen them leave together? Had a nurse glanced out the window at the right moment? The questions clawed up his throat like bile. He braced both palms against the cool tile and let the scalding water pound against his shoulders, hoping it would wash the panic away.

It didn’t.

Instead, the heat brought everything back sharper: the press of Ilya’s body, the way those big hands had gripped his waist like they belonged there, the rough scrape of stubble against his neck, the low growl of that accent curling around every word. Shane’s cock throbbed, insistent, untouched for too long. He groaned under his breath, half frustration, half surrender, and wrapped his right hand around himself.

The first stroke was slow, testing. Water sluiced down his chest, over his knuckles, making everything slick and warm. He closed his eyes and let the images flood in: Ilya crowding him against the door again, but this time there was no twenty-minute limit, no sudden burst of self-preservation. Just Ilya’s palm sliding down Shane’s stomach, rough fingers curling around his length, stroking him with the same confidence he’d used to pin Shane in place. Shane imagined the weight of that body pressed flush against his back, Ilya’s chest to his shoulders, one thick arm banded across his ribs to hold him steady while the other worked him open-palmed, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke, spreading pre cum until the slide was filthy-smooth.

He pictured Ilya’s mouth at his ear, breath hot, voice wrecked and low: “Look at you, Doc. So fucking hard for me.” Shane’s hips jerked into his own fist at the imagined words. He sped up, grip tightening, chasing the fantasy. Those pale blue eyes locked on his, intense, unblinking, watching every twitch of Shane’s face while he jerked him off with slow, punishing pulls, base to tip, twisting at the crown, then dragging back down again. Shane’s free hand slapped against the wall for balance; his thighs trembled. He could almost feel the stretch of Ilya’s fingers wrapping around him completely, could almost hear the wet sound of skin on skin over the roar of the water.

He came hard, sudden and blinding, spilling over his knuckles in thick pulses while his whole body locked up. The release punched the air out of him; he bit his lip to keep from moaning loud enough to echo off the tiles. For a few long seconds there was nothing but the pounding water.

Then the guilt crashed in like cold air through an open window.

He stood there, forehead pressed to the tile, letting the spray turn lukewarm against his back. What the hell was he doing? Jerking off in the shower to a man he didn’t even know. He’d let Ilya into his apartment. He’d kissed him. He’d wanted more. And now he was alone again, cock softening in his hand, chest tight with shame and something that felt dangerously close to regret.

He turned off the water with shaking fingers, stepped out, and wrapped a towel around his waist without looking in the mirror. He didn’t want to see his own face right now.

The apartment was still silent. Still empty and for once, Shane hated it.

Ilya stepped out of Shane’s building into the pale morning, the cold biting at his cheeks and the taste of the doctor still lingering on his tongue, salt, coffee, something clean and faintly sweet that made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t used to. He shoved both hands deep into his jacket pockets, a slow grin spreading across his face as he started walking. This wasn’t over. Not even close. Shane could kick him out, draw lines, pretend he was done, but Ilya knew better. He’d seen the way Shane’s breath had caught, the way his fingers had curled into Ilya’s hoodie like he couldn’t decide what to do. 

He wandered a few blocks until he found a small corner café with fogged-up windows and the smell of fresh bread drifting out every time someone opened the door. He ordered a black coffee, found a table in the back, and pulled out his phone. A quick tap sent his location to Svetlana, no message, just the pin. She’d show up. 

Fifteen minutes later the bell above the door jingled and there she was, dark hair pulled into a messy knot, leather jacket zipped to her chin, scanning the room like she was casing the place. She spotted him, rolled her eyes at the sight of the bandage peeking out from the ripped leg of his jeans, and dropped into the chair across from him.

“Where’s your car?” she asked, voice low, already suspicious.

Ilya shrugged, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Left it somewhere else. Wasn’t in the mood to go get it. Besides, we needed coffee anyway.”

Svetlana narrowed her eyes at the fresh stitches on his calf, visible through the tear in the denim. “What happened to your leg?”

“Just a scratch.” He stretched the leg out under the table, wincing a little for show. “Nothing serious.”

She snorted. “I hope the doctor threw you out on your ass after he patched you up.”

Ilya laughed, quiet and rough, and leaned back in his chair, cradling the mug between his palms. “Actually… he invited me back to his place.”

Svetlana stared at him for a long beat, expression flat. Then she leaned forward. “Then he’s even stupider than I thought.”

Another laugh bubbled up, this one softer. Ilya took another swallow of coffee, eyes glinting. “He kisses good, though.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful, then turned in her seat and flashed the barista behind the counter the kind of wide, sweet smile that could disarm anyone. Her voice came out honey-soft, lilting. “One espresso, please? Thank you so much.”

Ilya watched the whole performance, eyebrows climbing. When the barista walked away, he switched to Russian, voice low and amused.

“What the hell was that?”

Svetlana shrugged one shoulder, smile dropping like it had never been there. “Being polite. You should try it sometime.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute while the espresso machine hissed and clattered. She drummed her fingers on the table, then finally spoke again, still in Russian, quieter now.

“I tracked Alexei.”

Ilya’s easy posture stiffened just a fraction. He kept his face neutral, but his grip on the mug tightened. “And?”

“He’s still in Russia.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “For now.”

The words hung between them. Ilya stared into his coffee like it might give him answers, jaw working. The café noise faded to a dull hum around them. He felt the familiar weight settle in his chest: the family, the debts, the blood that never quite washed off no matter how far he ran. And now the perfect, stubborn, completely out-of-his-league Shane, tangled up in the middle of it all without even knowing.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

“Good,” he said finally, voice steady. “Let him stay there.”

Svetlana didn’t answer. She just watched him, sharp and knowing, like she could see every crack in the armor he thought he was still wearing.

The barista set her espresso down with a shy smile. Svetlana thanked her again, soft and charming, then turned back to Ilya and raised the tiny cup in a mock toast.

“To stupid doctors,” she said dryly, “and the idiots who kiss them.”

Ilya leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table until his boot nudged Svetlana’s. He lifted his mug in a lazy salute, the dark liquid inside still steaming. “I’d rather have vodka, honestly.”

Svetlana didn’t even look up from stirring sugar into her espresso. “It’s not even eight a.m., you animal.”

He smirked, one corner of his mouth hooking higher than the other. “And?”

She finally met his eyes, unimpressed then wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, leaned her elbows on the table, and fixed him with the look she usually saved for when he was about to do something irreversibly stupid.

“So what do you want, Ilya? You didn’t drag me out here before the sun’s properly up just to complain about caffeine.”

He rolled his shoulders, the movement careful because of the stitches pulling in his calf. “I can’t go back to the hospital. Can’t show up bleeding again just to see him. I promised I’d disappear.” He paused, staring into the black surface of his coffee like it might have a better plan than he did. “So I was thinking… you could work some magic on Pike.”

Svetlana stared at him for a full three seconds. Then she threw her head back and laughed, loud, bright, completely genuine, the sound bouncing off the café’s exposed brick walls and turning a few heads. People glanced over, then quickly looked away again when they realized it was her.

When she could breathe, she wiped her eyes and shook her head. “Did someone hit you in the head extra hard during one of those fights? Because that is the dumbest thing you’ve said in months. I’m not ‘giving it a try’ on anyone, especially not a married guy.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You noticed the ring?”

“Hard to miss. It’s the size of a goddamn hubcap.” She leaned forward, voice dropping to something sharper. “Look, if you actually want the doctor, act like a normal person for once in your life. Ask him out properly. Dinner. Coffee. But don’t send me to flirt with his friends like we’re in some bad rom-com.”

Ilya’s grin faded a little, though the stubborn glint in his eyes stayed put. “I told him I’d stay gone.”

“Then keep your word,” she said, simple and final. “You made a promise. Honor it.”

He let out a low, humorless laugh and rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm. “That’s not gonna happen, Lana.”

She didn’t argue. She just watched him, the same way she’d watched him since they were kids, half exasperated, half resigned, like she already knew the ending to this story and was just waiting for him to catch up. 

Ilya took another slow sip of coffee, tasting nothing but bitterness.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

And deep down, he knew Shane wasn’t either. Not really. Not after the way the doctor had kissed him, like a man finally allowing himself to fall off a ledge he’d been standing on the edge of for years. 

Ilya had never been very good at walking away from a fight he wanted to win.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the long chapter. I’m still learning how to break them up. I hope you’re enjoying the story.

Chapter 5: The waiting game

Chapter Summary

“I don’t do this,” Shane said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Dates. Dinners. Walks. Whatever you’re trying to turn this into. I don’t… I don’t have interest in you and most importantly I don’t go out with men.”

Ilya laughed, quiet, dark, the sound curling around Shane’s spine like smoke. “You don’t go out with men. But you kiss them?”

Shane’s stomach dropped. “That kiss was a mistake. It’s not happening again.”

Two weeks had slipped by since that kiss in Shane's apartment, the one that had left his lips bruised and his mind tangled in ways he couldn't quite untangle. He'd replayed it over and over during quiet moments, but Ilya had vanished after that night, true to whatever unspoken agreement they'd stumbled into, and the ER doors hadn't swung open with his tall frame through them again.

He was midway through another shift, leaned against the counter, flipping through a patient's labs on his tablet, but his eyes kept drifting to the double doors at the end of the hall. Every time they whooshed open for an ambulance or a walk-in, his pulse kicked up a notch, half-expecting to see those pale blue eyes scanning the room for him. It was stupid, really, this waiting game he hadn't signed up for, but there it was, pulling at his attention like a loose thread on his scrubs.

Hayden sidled up next to him in full chatter mode, the way he got when he was excited about something outside the chaos of work, and today it was all about the dinner plans they'd locked in for that evening. 

"Dude, the girls are convinced you're bringing presents," Hayden said, elbowing him lightly. "I tried telling them it's just dinner, but you know how they are. Jackie's got the place smelling like a restaurant. You still good for seven?"

Shane nodded, his gaze still fixed on those doors, watching a mom hustle in with a toddler clutching his arm. No Rozanov. He forced his attention back to Hayden, shaking his head a little to clear the fog.

"Yeah, seven works," he muttered, tapping at the tablet without really seeing the numbers on the screen.

Hayden paused, sipping his coffee, eyeing him with that knowing look he pulled out when he sensed something was off. "You sure? You've been zoning out all shift. If it's that bad, we can reschedule. But don't bail, Jackie will kill you."

Shane managed a half-smile, setting the tablet down and rubbing at the tension building in his temples. Two weeks, and nothing. Maybe the guy had finally gotten smart and skipped town, or maybe he was out there somewhere, tangled up in whatever shadows he carried. Either way, it shouldn't matter. Shane had a life here, patients, routines, friends like Hayden who didn't come with drama or kisses that wrecked your sleep.

"Nah, I'm in," he said, straightening up as a new chart popped up on the board. "Wouldn't miss it. Tell the girls I'll try not to disappoint on the present front."

Hayden grinned, clapping him on the back before heading off to check on a patient in Bay 2. Shane watched him go, then turned back to the doors again, the pull of anticipation mixing with a strange kind of relief that nothing had shattered the calm yet. The shift rolled on, cases coming and going, but that undercurrent stayed with him, a quiet distraction he couldn't quite shake.

By the time Shane clocked out at seven in the morning, the winter sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, casting a pale glow on the snow-dusted streets outside Montreal General. He drove home in a fog, the heater blasting against the chill seeping through the car windows, and crashed into bed for a few hours of restless sleep, dreams flickering with flashes of blue eyes and rough hands that left him waking up more tangled than before. When evening rolled around, he dragged himself out of the apartment a little before six, figuring he had time to swing by a nearby market to grab something for the twins—maybe those stuffed animals they'd been obsessed with last time—and a decent bottle of red to go with Jackie's pasta. 

The market was one of those cozy neighborhood spots, lights warm against the darkening sky, shelves stocked with local wines and a toy section tucked in the back that always seemed to have just the right thing for kids. Shane wandered the aisles, picking out a couple of plush bears, then headed to the wine rack, scanning labels for something not too fancy but solid enough to show he appreciated the invite. He was reaching for a mid-range Cabernet when a familiar voice cut through the hum of the store, low and accented.

"Dr Shane Hollander? What coincidence."

Shane froze, bottle halfway in his hand, and turned to see Ilya Rozanov standing there at the end of the aisle, holding a bottle of his own. The guy looked annoyingly put-together in a dark coat that hugged his broad shoulders, light curls tousled just enough to seem casual, those blue eyes lighting up with that crooked smile that hit like a punch. 

"Mr. Rozanov," Shane said, keeping his voice even, though his heart was already picking up speed. He set the wine in his basket and shifted the toy bag in his other hand, glancing toward the checkout like he could just pay and leave. "Yeah, small world. Just grabbing a few things."

Ilya didn't move, just tilted his head, that smile lingering as he eyed the bottle in Shane's basket. "Nice choice. You taking that for dinner somewhere? Special night?"

Shane felt a flush creep up his neck, the question too casual to be real. He adjusted the bag, stepping back a little. "Something like that. Look, I gotta get going—"

"Wait, wait," Ilya said, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower, that thick Russian accent wrapping around the words like smoke. "You eat with me instead? I know good place. Quiet. We can talk."

Shane shook his head, the words coming out firmer, because damn, why did that invitation tug at him like this? "Can't. I have plans already."

Ilya's eyebrows lifted, playful but persistent. "Plans? What kind? I come with? I behave."

"No, that's not—" Shane started, his mind spinning, knowing this was a bad idea from every angle, the kind of complication that could unravel everything, but those eyes were locked on him, making it hard to just walk away clean. "It's with my friend and his family. I don't think he'd be thrilled about a random guy showing up at his family dinner."

Ilya chuckled, low and warm, leaning against the shelf like he had all night. "Random? Me? No, Doc. I'm good with wives. Charm them easy." His gaze dropped to the toy bag dangling from Shane's fingers, and his expression softened, that crooked grin turning almost boyish. "And kids? They love me. I make them laugh, play games. See? Perfect guest."

Shane stared at him, the confusion churning in his chest, part of him screaming to shut this down, but another part, the one that remembered the heat of that kiss, was faltering, making his no feel weaker than it should. Why was it so damn hard to just say no and mean it with this guy?

Ilya must have seen the hesitation, because he pulled out that puppy-dog look, eyes going wide and pleading, lower lip jutting just a touch. "Come on, Doc. I stayed away two weeks, like I promise. No ER, no trouble for you. I keep word. Don't I deserve little reward? Just dinner."

The drive to Hayden’s place felt shorter than it should have, probably because Shane spent most of it gripping the steering wheel too hard and trying not to glance at the passenger seat every five seconds. Ilya sat there like he belonged, long legs stretched out as much as the car allowed, one arm resting casually along the door, the other holding the bottle of wine he’d insisted on buying “for the table” after Shane had reluctantly agreed to let him tag along. The guy hadn’t said much during the ride, just hummed something low and Russian under his breath, content in the silence like he’d already won the night simply by being there. Shane kept telling himself this was a terrible idea, that he should have dropped Ilya off at the nearest corner and driven away alone, but every time he opened his mouth to say it, the words died somewhere in his throat. 

They pulled up to the small brick house on the quiet street, porch light glowing warm against the early-evening dark, and Shane killed the engine. For a second neither of them moved. The faint sound of kids laughing drifted from inside, high-pitched and happy, and Shane felt a sudden, ridiculous wave of nerves. This was supposed to be easy, normal. Friends, pasta, wine, the twins climbing all over him like they always did. Not whatever this was.

“Ready?” Ilya asked, voice soft, almost gentle.

Shane exhaled through his nose. “No. But let’s go anyway.”

He got out, grabbed the bag with the stuffed bears, and started up the walk. Ilya followed right behind him, close enough that Shane could feel the heat off his coat. When they reached the door, Shane knocked twice, quick and familiar, the way he’d done a hundred times before.

The door swung open almost immediately. Hayden stood there in a faded hoodie and jeans, dish towel slung over one shoulder, already grinning, until his eyes slid past Shane to the tall, broad-shouldered man looming just behind him. The grin vanished like someone had flipped a switch. His brows shot up, confusion written all over his face as he took in Ilya’s expensive coat, the easy confidence, the faint smirk that never quite left his mouth.

Shane jumped in before Hayden could open his mouth. “Don’t. Just—don’t ask. Please.”

Hayden’s gaze flicked back and forth between them a couple times, then he stepped aside, holding the door wider with a slow, deliberate motion. “Okay. Sure. Come on in, I guess.”

Ilya stepped forward first, extending a hand with that crooked, charming smile. “Pike, right? Good to meet you. I’m Ilya. Shane’s friend.”

Hayden shook the offered hand, grip probably tighter than necessary, but he managed a polite nod. “Yeah. Hayden. Come in.”

The warmth of the house hit them immediately. Jackie appeared from the kitchen a second later, one hand resting on the impressive curve of her belly, the other holding a wooden spoon. She was due any day now with their fourth, and she moved with the careful grace of someone who’d done this dance before. Her eyes lit up when she saw Shane.

“Shane baby! You made it.” Then her gaze slid to Ilya and her smile turned curious, warm but questioning. “And you brought company.”

Shane rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up there again. “Yeah. Jackie, this is Ilya. He’s… a friend. Ilya, Jackie.”

Ilya stepped forward smoothly, offering the bottle of red he’d carried in with a little bow that somehow looked elegant instead of ridiculous. “For you, beautiful hostess. Thank you for having me.”

Jackie laughed, soft and surprised, taking the bottle. “Well, aren’t you sweet. Thank you. And welcome—any friend of Shane’s is welcome here.” She glanced at Shane with a raised eyebrow that said they’d be talking about this later.

Shane caught Hayden’s eye and mouthed “sorry” over Jackie’s head. Hayden just shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated, and clapped Shane on the shoulder as he passed.

Before anyone could say anything else, the sound of small feet thundered down the hallway. Two identical blurs in matching purple pajamas came barreling toward them, shrieking “Uncle Shane!” in perfect unison. They launched themselves at his legs, nearly knocking him off balance, arms wrapping around his thighs like they hadn’t seen him in years instead of a couple weeks.

Shane laughed, real, surprised, and dropped to one knee so he could hug them properly. “Hey, monsters. Missed you too.”

The twins—Lily and Grace—pulled back just enough to look up at him, then noticed the new person standing behind him. Their eyes went wide, identical dark curls bouncing as they tilted their heads in perfect sync.

“Who’s that?” Lily demanded, pointing straight at Ilya.

Grace was already studying him like he was a puzzle. “He’s tall.”

Ilya crouched down immediately, bringing himself to their level, that dangerous edge in his smile softening into something almost tender. “I’m Ilya. Friend of Uncle Shane. And I heard you two are the bosses around here.”

The girls exchanged a look, then nodded solemnly.

“We are,” Grace confirmed.

Lily squinted at him. “Did you bring us presents?”

Shane snorted, but Ilya only laughed, low and warm. “Maybe. But first I must ask permission from the bosses. What do you say—can I stay for dinner?”

The twins looked at each other again, then back at Ilya, and in unison they shouted, “Yes!”

Jackie covered her mouth to hide a grin. Hayden groaned dramatically, but he was smiling too, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

Shane stood up slowly, watching the whole scene unfold, feeling like he’d stepped into some alternate version of his own life where the rules didn’t apply the same way. Ilya was already letting the girls tug him toward the living room, asking them about their drawings on the fridge, promising he’d play whatever game they wanted after dinner. Shane caught Hayden’s eye across the hallway and saw the question there, loud and clear: What the hell are you doing?

Shane could only shrug, helpless and a little terrified, because he had no idea. But watching Ilya kneel on the carpet and let Lily climb onto his back while Grace directed traffic, he realized he wasn’t ready to stop it either.

Jackie bumped his arm lightly with her elbow. “You okay?”

Shane exhaled, watching Ilya laugh as the twins tried to braid his curls. “I honestly don’t know.”

She smiled, soft and knowing. “Well, dinner’s almost ready. Come help me set the table and you can figure it out.”

Dinner passed in a surprisingly calm bubble. The table was crowded with plates of creamy fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread still warm from the oven, and a big bowl of roasted vegetables that Jackie had clearly spent the afternoon fussing over. Conversation flowed easier than Shane had any right to expect. Jackie, always the curious one, leaned forward between bites and asked Ilya the kind of gentle, open questions that made people feel seen without feeling interrogated.

“So, Russia,” she said, twirling pasta around her fork. “What part are you from? And how did you end up all the way up here in Canada?”

Ilya took a slow sip of wine before answering, the movement easy, almost practiced. “Small city near Urals. Cold, like here, but different cold.” He smiled a little, the edges of it softer than usual. “After my father died, my brother and I, we don’t agree on many things. I decide to travel. See new places. My friend, she is the one who choose Canada. She say Montreal is beautiful, has good food, good people. So here I am.”

It was close enough to the truth that it didn’t feel like a lie, and far enough from the whole story. Shane kept his eyes on his plate, pushing a piece of broccoli around, grateful that Jackie didn’t press.

Hayden, though, wasn’t quite ready to let it go yet. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, studying Ilya with that quiet, assessing look.

“You still getting into fights?” Hayden asked, tone light but not quite joking. “Or did you finally learn to duck?”

Ilya laughed, low, genuine, the sound rumbling through the room like distant thunder. “I’m being more careful now. Doctor's order.”

Shane felt the heat rise in his face and hoped the dimmed overhead light hid it. Ilya looked completely at ease, complimenting Jackie on the sauce every few minutes, asking for seconds, telling the twins across the table little exaggerated stories about snow monsters in Siberia that had them giggling into their milk glasses. The guy fit, somehow, like he’d always been meant to sit at this table, and the realization made Shane’s chest feel too tight.

After plates were cleared and the last of the bread had disappeared, Shane stood up before anyone could argue. “I’ll help with the kitchen.”

Jackie tried to wave him off “You’re a guest” but he was already stacking dishes, needing the small, familiar rhythm of rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher to ground himself. Hayden disappeared down the hall to check on the baby, who’d started fussing a little while earlier, and the twins immediately latched onto Ilya’s hands, dragging him toward the living room with demands for “one more story, please, please, please.”

When Shane finally wandered back out fifteen minutes later, wiping his hands on a dish towel, the scene in front of him stopped him cold.

Grace, was curled in Ilya’s lap, fast asleep, her small cheek pressed against his chest, dark curls spilling over his arm. Lily had claimed the couch cushion right next to them, knees tucked up, head tipped sideways, mouth slightly open in that completely unguarded way only sleeping kids manage. Ilya sat perfectly still, one big hand resting lightly on Grace’s back, the other holding an open picture book that had clearly been abandoned mid-sentence.

He looked up when Shane stepped closer and offered a small, crooked smile.

“Told you,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I’m good with kids.”

Shane swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. You did.”

They stayed quiet for another minute, the only sounds the soft ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the baby monitor from down the hall. Then Jackie appeared in the doorway, saw the sleeping girls, and pressed both hands to her heart.

“Oh my God,” she mouthed, eyes shining. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The goodbyes were easy after that. Ilya thanked Jackie again for the food, told her seriously that it was the best pasta he’d had since he left home. She hugged him, quick, warm, the way she hugged everyone she decided she liked, and told him he was welcome back anytime, no invitation required. Hayden walked them to the door, and when Shane glanced back, their eyes met over Ilya’s shoulder: a long, wordless look that said everything and nothing at once.

Outside, the cold bit at Shane’s cheeks as they crossed the snowy driveway to the car. Ilya slid into the passenger seat without comment, buckling up like this was routine. Shane started the engine, let the heater blast for a second, then pulled away from the curb.

They drove in silence for the first few blocks, streetlights sliding gold across Ilya’s face. Then Ilya turned his head, voice low and lazy.

“One more drink at your place?”

Shane’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “No.”

A small pause. “Okay.” Ilya didn’t sound disappointed, just accepting. “Then take me home. I give you address.”

Shane nodded once, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah. Just tell me where.”

Ilya rattled off an intersection downtown, a building Shane vaguely recognized as one of the newer luxury condos near the old port—expensive, discreet, the kind of place that didn’t advertise. Shane didn’t ask how he afforded it. He already knew more than he wanted to.

The car stopped in front of the sleek condo tower, exhaust curling white into the frigid night air. Neither of them moved to open a door. Shane stared straight ahead at the glowing entrance, at the doorman who had already disappeared back inside, at anything except the man sitting less than two feet away.

Ilya shifted in his seat, leather creaking softly. “You don’t want to come up? Just one drink. My place is warmer than this car.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. “No.”

A beat of quiet. Then Ilya’s voice again, lower, teasing at the edges. “Okay. Then maybe a drive? Little walk around the old port. Snow is pretty tonight.”

“I’m not doing that either.”

Ilya let out a soft huff of amusement. “Why are you so difficult with me, Doc? Every time I try, you push.”

Shane felt the words land somewhere deep in his gut, hot and uncomfortable. The car suddenly seemed too small, the air too thick with Ilya’s cologne and the faint trace of Jackie’s garlic lingering on both their clothes. His pulse was loud in his ears, too fast, too obvious. He hated how aware he was of every inch between them, how he could feel the heat rolling off Ilya’s body even without touching.

“I don’t do this,” Shane said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Dates. Dinners. Walks. Whatever you’re trying to turn this into. I don’t… I don’t have interest in you and most importantly I don’t go out with men.”

Ilya laughed, quiet, dark, the sound curling around Shane’s spine like smoke. “You don’t go out with men. But you kiss them?”

Shane’s stomach dropped. “That kiss was a mistake. It’s not happening again.”

The words hung there, brittle and unconvincing even to his own ears.

Ilya didn’t answer right away. Instead he reached over, slow enough that Shane could have stopped him, and unbuckle his own seatbelt with a soft click. He leaned in, one hand coming up to catch Shane’s jaw—firm, warm, thumb brushing the edge of his bottom lip like he was memorizing the shape.

Shane froze.

Ilya’s voice dropped to a murmur, close enough that Shane felt the words more than heard them. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

Shane opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The silence stretched, taut and electric.

Then Ilya closed the last few inches and kissed him.

It was hungry, needy, the kind of kiss that swallowed excuses. Shane’s hands fisted in his own coat at first, knuckles white, body locked in place while his brain screamed at him to pull back, to stop, to remember every single reason this was a disaster.

But his mouth didn’t listen.

He kissed back, harder, angrier, like he’d been starving for it and hadn’t even known until right that second. One hand left his coat and found Ilya’s collar, yanking him closer; the other slid into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, fingers twisting, holding on like letting go might kill him. Ilya made a low, pleased sound against his lips, and Shane felt it vibrate through his whole body. He didn’t know who was kissing who anymore, only that he was the one pressing forward now, chasing the taste of wine and heat and something dangerously close to surrender.

The kiss stretched, deepened, turned messy and desperate until Shane’s lungs burned and he finally had to break away just to breathe. Their foreheads rested together, both of them panting, the windows starting to fog around the edges.

Ilya’s thumb stroked once along Shane’s cheekbone, slow and deliberate.

“Still a mistake?” he whispered, voice wrecked.

Shane couldn't answer. His heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack something. He felt raw, exposed, like every wall he’d spent years building had just been kicked down in the front seat of his own damn car.

Ilya’s hand moved first, fingers finding the buckle of Shane’s seatbelt and popping it free with a quiet metallic snap. He didn’t ask permission, didn’t wait for protest; he just tugged, firm and steady, guiding Shane across the center console until Shane was half in his lap, knees bumping awkwardly against the door and the gearshift, the space too damn small for what they were doing but neither of them caring enough to stop.

Shane went. That was the part that would keep him up later, he went without a fight, without even a token pushback, letting Ilya pull him in until their chests pressed together and Shane’s hands braced instinctively on those broad shoulders to keep from toppling sideways. The car rocked faintly under the shift of weight, a soft creak of suspension that felt obscene in the quiet street.

Ilya cupped Shane’s face with one wide palm, thumb sweeping along his cheekbone. Then he kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, less frantic and more calm, like he was savoring every second, every slide of tongue, every catch of breath. Shane felt the difference in the way Ilya took his time, the way he tilted Shane’s head just so, controlling the angle without ever making it feel like control.

A small sound slipped out of Shane, not quite a moan, just a soft, involuntary exhale that caught in the back of his throat and trembled there. It was enough. Ilya’s whole body tensed under him, hips lifting just a fraction, the hard line of him pressing unmistakably against Shane’s thigh. The low, ragged noise Ilya made against Shane’s mouth sounded almost pained.

“Please,” Ilya whispered, voice cracked and thin, so close to a whimper it sent heat flooding straight through Shane’s stomach. “Come up. Just come upstairs with me. One night. I’ll be good. I swear.”

Shane’s lungs burned. He shook his head, barely, the motion small and stubborn even as his fingers curled tighter into Ilya’s coat.

“No.”

Ilya let out a frustrated groan, forehead dropping to Shane’s shoulder for a second, breath hot against the side of his neck. His hand slid down to Shane’s waist, gripping hard, like letting go might actually hurt.

Before he could argue, before he could beg again or push or pull or do any of the things Shane half-expected, Shane moved.

He pushed himself back, awkwardly, until he was in the driver’s seat again, hands shaking as he gripped the wheel. The sudden distance felt like ripping off a bandage too fast, stinging and cold and somehow worse than the heat had been.

Ilya stared at him, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dark and blown, lips red and wet.

Shane swallowed hard, voice rough when it finally came out.

“We’re going to my place.”

Ilya blinked once, then a slow, dangerous smile curled across his mouth, slow enough that Shane felt it like a physical thing sliding under his skin.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, clipped his seatbelt back into place, and settled deeper into the passenger seat like a man who’d just won something he’d been chasing for weeks.

Shane put the car in drive.

The streets were empty, the city hushed under fresh snow, and the only sound inside the car was the low rumble of the engine and the unsteady rhythm of two people trying and failing to breathe normally. Shane kept his eyes on the road, pulse hammering in his throat, every nerve lit up and screaming that this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

The second the door clicked shut behind them, Ilya had Shane slammed against the wall, kissing him so hard it basically punched the air out of Shane’s lungs. Hands were fucking everywhere—Ilya shoved Shane’s coat off like it personally offended him, yanked his shirt up like he couldn’t wait another second for skin. Shane gasped right into his mouth, fingers digging into Ilya’s arms just to stay upright while everything else disappeared except the heat and the pounding in his chest.

Ilya pulled back just enough to drag his mouth down Shane’s jaw, all wet and messy, teeth catching that spot under his ear before he bit down properly. Shane let out this pathetic, needy whine he didn’t even try to stop and that sound did something to Ilya. He growled low against Shane’s neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head back so he could get at more throat. Sucked hard over his pulse, tongue flicking to ease the sting, while his other hand was already sliding up Shane’s chest, thumb rubbing circles over a nipple until it was hard and obvious through the shirt. Shane arched into it without thinking, hips jerking forward, chasing anything, and Ilya gave this dark little chuckle against his collarbone that made Shane’s whole spine light up.

Ilya was kissing lower—nipping, licking, shoving Shane’s shirt up and out of the way so he could get his mouth on bare skin. Every touch felt like it was burning him. Fingers dragging down his ribs, dipping just inside the waistband of his jeans to tease, then pulling away the second Shane pushed toward him like the little shit he was. Ilya clearly wanted more of those sounds, the shaky breaths, the desperate little noises, so he went hunting for them: teeth grazing an earlobe, slow wet lick over the freckles on Shane’s cheek until he turned his face into it begging for more. Ilya’s breathing was wrecked now, accent thick and rough as he muttered something low and Russian against Shane’s temple—Shane had no idea what it meant but fuck, the way Ilya’s grip tightened felt like a promise.

Finally the shirt was gone, flung somewhere into the dark, and then Ilya just dropped to his knees like it was nothing. Hands made quick work of Shane’s belt, yanking jeans and boxers down in one impatient tug. Shane hissed at the cold air hitting him, but Ilya didn’t give a shit about adjusting, he just leaned in, hot open mouth, tongue pressing flat along the underside in one long, filthy stroke. Shane’s knees literally buckled. He slapped one hand against the wall, the other tangling in Ilya’s curls, just holding on for dear life as Ilya took him in deeper.

Slow at first, lips stretched wide, sucking just right. Then faster. Tongue swirling around the head every time he pulled back, flicking the slit, lapping up the pre cum like he was starving for it. He hummed low in his throat and the vibration went straight through Shane’s balls, Shane moaned, loud and broken, the sound bouncing off the hallway walls. He looked down and—fuck—those pale blue eyes staring up at him, dark and blown out, cheeks hollowed, one big hand stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach while the other gripped Shane’s thigh hard enough to bruise.

It was messy as hell. Ilya’s rhythm kept changing, slow and teasing, then fast and greedy, then slow again like he was trying to torture him on purpose. Shane’s legs were shaking, hips jerking forward on instinct, and Ilya just let him, groaned like he loved it, loved Shane losing it, loved the way he was fucking his mouth without meaning to.

Shane couldn’t stop the noises anymore. Curses, half-words, low wrecked moans, he was loud and he didn’t care. Every time he made a sound Ilya hummed approval around him, sucked harder, took him deeper until his nose was brushing Shane’s stomach and Shane’s brain was just static and heat and please don’t fucking stop.

“Fuck, yeah!” Ilya rasped, pulling off for a second to catch his breath. His voice was totally shot, lips shiny and puffy, hand sliding slow and firm up and down Shane’s dick while he stared up like he was memorizing every twitch on Shane’s face. “Let me hear you. Don’t you hold back.”

Shane’s head smacked back against the wall, eyes slammed shut, fingers knotted tight in Ilya’s curls. No chance in hell he could stay quiet even if he wanted to. Ilya took him deep again, throat squeezing around him, swallowing in this filthy, perfect way that made Shane’s whole body lock up. The heat in his gut wound tighter and tighter until it just snapped. He came with this choked, broken groan, hips jerking hard as he spilled down Ilya’s throat. Ilya didn’t even blink, swallowed every drop, slow and greedy, kept sucking soft until Shane was shaking like a leaf, way too sensitive and gasping for air.

When Ilya finally let him go, he pressed a lazy, wet kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh, then another a little higher, then dragged himself up, big hands sliding slow up Shane’s sides like he was claiming every inch all over again. He kissed Shane’s mouth, deep, slow, tasting like salt and cum and Shane kissed him right back, messy and desperate, hands fisting the front of Ilya’s shirt, yanking him in closer even though his legs still felt like jelly.

Shane started stumbling them backward, clumsy as hell, never breaking the kiss. He shoved Ilya through the bedroom doorway, already fumbling with buttons and zippers, tearing clothes off. Ilya just let Shane push him until the back of his knees hit the bed and he sat down hard, pulling Shane down on top for one more bruising kiss before Shane slid right to his knees between Ilya’s spread thighs.

Shane didn’t even pause to think. He yanked Ilya’s jeans and boxers down just far enough, wrapped his hand around that thick, leaking cock, and took him in. Ilya let out this long, low groan, one hand coming up to thread gently through Shane’s hair, not forcing, thumb brushing soft little strokes over the shell of his ear. It made Shane’s chest do something stupid and tender even while he was working his mouth lower.

“Fuck, Hollander, exactly like that,” Ilya breathed, voice rough and wrecked. His hips gave these tiny, careful little thrusts like he was trying so hard not to lose it. “You feel so fucking good. So perfect.”

Shane hummed around him, took him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard, spit making everything slick and messy, wet sounds filling the quiet room. Ilya’s breathing went to shit, fingers tightening just a bit in Shane’s hair, the other hand gripping the sheets. Shane could feel him getting close by the way his thighs flexed, the way his cock pulsed heavy on his tongue and he didn’t let up, didn’t slow, just kept going until Ilya’s voice cracked.

“Close—Hollander—fuck—”

Shane pulled off right at the edge, hand taking over, stroking fast and tight while he watched Ilya fall apart. Ilya came with this low, shuddering moan, spilling hot and thick over Shane’s fingers, pulse after pulse until he was shaking, completely spent.

Shane wiped his hand on some random shirt crumpled on the floor, then crawled up onto the bed and flopped onto his back next to Ilya. The mattress dipped as Ilya immediately rolled toward him, big body curling in close. He didn’t say a word, just reached out, slow and careful, and tugged Shane against his chest until they were pressed together, skin still burning. Ilya tucked Shane’s head under his chin, one heavy arm slung across his waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on his back. The other hand found Shane’s, lacing their fingers together, thumb brushing slow over his knuckles.

They stayed like that, breathing slowly syncing up, the only sound in the room the faint hum of the city outside the window and the soft rustle of sheets when one of them shifted a little closer. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The weight of Ilya's arm, the gentle press of lips against Shane’s hairline every few minutes.

Shane stayed curled against Ilya’s chest for what felt like forever and no time at all, letting the slow rise and fall of the other man’s breathing calm him down even while panic clawed quietly at the back of his mind. He couldn’t stay like this forever. He knew that. Eventually he shifted, rolling just enough to face Ilya, propping himself up on one elbow. A small, awkward smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.

“So did that finally get the obsession out of your system, Mr Rozanov?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light, like he wasn’t half-terrified of the answer.

Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners, lazy and satisfied. “Think it only made it worse.”

Shane exhaled through his nose, the smile fading. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Ilya tilted his head, studying him like he was something fascinating and frustrating all at once. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t even know you,” Shane said, sharper than he meant. “Not really. I know your name. I know the half-story you told Jackie at dinner. That’s it.”

Ilya shrugged one shoulder, the movement slow and unbothered. “You never asked. I can be open book if you want.”

Shane hesitated, then went for it anyway. “That apartment, is it actually yours?”

“Yes. Mine.” Ilya’s mouth curved. “I live there with Svetlana.”

Shane’s stomach did a small, uncomfortable flip. He tried to keep his face neutral. “You live with her.”

“Yes. We come together from Russia. We stay together.”

Shane rubbed a hand over his jaw, suddenly feeling exposed in a whole new way. “So… you and Svetlana. You two have something?”

Ilya laughed, amused, like the question delighted him. “Jealous, Doc?”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Shane moved to roll away, heat crawling up his neck, but Ilya’s arm hooked around his waist and tugged him right back, close enough that their noses almost touched.

“Was something for long time,” Ilya said, voice quieter now, more serious. “But mostly we are friends. More friends than lovers.”

Shane made a face, nose wrinkling. “Don’t say ‘lovers.’ It’s gross.”

Ilya’s grin came back full force. “You are cute when you’re grumpy, Dr. Hollander.”

Before Shane could fire back, a phone buzzed somewhere on the floor. Ilya groaned, untangled himself just enough to reach for his discarded jeans, and fished the device out of the pocket. He glanced at the screen, muttered something under his breath in Russian that sounded distinctly annoyed, then answered with a clipped “Da?”

The conversation was all fast, guttural Russian, irritated, short, like someone was scolding him and he was only half listening. After a minute he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something that sounded like agreement before hanging up.

“Svetlana,” he explained, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. “I disappear, she worry.”

Shane sat up, dragging the sheet around his waist like armor. “I’ll drive you home.”

“No need. I call taxi.”

Ilya stood, unselfconscious and still half-hard in the low light, and started gathering clothes from the floor. He pulled on boxers and jeans, then his shirt, buttoning it carelessly while Shane watched from the bed, feeling strangely hollow. When Ilya was dressed, he came back, leaned over the mattress, and kissed Shane, slow, soft little presses against his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his eye, like he was memorizing the taste of him.

“Give me your phone, Doc.”

Shane blinked, then reached for it on the nightstand and handed it over without thinking. Ilya unlocked it with quick fingers, typed something fast, then sent himself a text. The buzz from his own pocket confirmed it.

“Now I have you,” Ilya said, handing the phone back with a crooked smile. “I call later.”

Shane stared at the screen, at the new contact labeled simply “Ilya,” and felt something tighten in his chest.

Ilya leaned down one last time, brushed a final kiss across Shane’s forehead, then straightened. “Sleep, Doc. You look tired.”

He turned and walked out of the bedroom without looking back, leaving Shane alone in the suddenly too-quiet apartment, sheets tangled around his legs and the ghost of warm lips still lingering on his skin.

Chapter 6: Ghosted

Chapter Summary

Shane dropped the bat with a clatter and lunged forward, catching him under the arms before he hit the floor. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you?”

Ilya tried to straighten, failed, breath coming in shallow gasps. Shane half-carried, half-dragged him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. Blood smeared on the threshold. Ilya’s weight sagged heavier against him, head dropping to Shane’s shoulder for a second like he couldn’t hold it up anymore. Shane got him to the couch, eased him down carefully, already scanning for how bad it really was—how much blood loss, how deep the wounds, whether anything looked like it needed pressure or a call to 911 right now. Ilya’s hand caught weakly at his wrist, blue eyes glassy but focused.

Shane leaned in close, voice low and urgent. “Who did this to you?”

Shane woke up tangled in sheets that still carried Ilya's scent, that stuck around way longer than it should. The room was dark, curtains half-drawn against the winter sun trying to sneak in, but it was the insistent ringing of his phone on the nightstand that yanked him out of the haze. He groaned, rolling over to grab it, squinting at the screen through sleep-blurred eyes. Hayden's name flashed there, and he swiped to answer before it went to voicemail.

"Hey," Shane mumbled, voice thick and rough from the night before, sitting up slowly as the world came into focus. His body ached in places it hadn't in years, a reminder of everything that had gone down after that stupid car ride home.

"Morning, sunshine," Hayden said, sounding way too awake for whatever time it was. "Just checking in after last night. That dinner was something else, huh? Jackie won't stop talking about you friend."

Shane glanced at the clock and nearly bolted upright—shit, it was almost noon already. He'd slept straight through his usual run, through the morning coffee ritual, right up to the edge of that lunch he'd promised his parents and Rose. His heart kicked up a notch, but he kept his tone casual, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, about that. Ran into him at the store on the way over, he kinda invited himself along. Sorry for springing it on you guys like that."

A pause on Hayden's end, then a low chuckle. "No worry, man. Jackie loved the guy, said he charmed the pants off everyone, even the twins. I'm still trying to figure out what she saw in him. Russian or whatever."

Shane let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the headboard, the sheets pooling around his waist. "You sound a little jealous there, Pike. Worried he's gonna steal your spot as family favorite?"

Hayden barked a laugh, confident and easy, the kind that always cut through any tension. "Jealous? Of that guy? Please, I've got the home-field advantage—diapers, bedtime stories, and a wife who thinks I'm a god in the kitchen. He's got nothing on my mac and cheese skills."

Shane grinned despite himself, the banter pulling him fully awake now. "Fair enough. Listen, I gotta jump in the shower and head out. Lunch with the parents and Rose—can't be late or Mom'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Got it. Catch you later at the hospital, then. Don't oversleep your shift too." 

Shane hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed, and swung his legs over the side. The apartment felt quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that pressed in after someone had just left it feeling full. He stood, stretching out the kinks in his back, and headed for the bathroom, turning on the shower to let the steam build up. As the water heated, he caught his reflection in the mirror—hair a mess, faint red marks along his neck and collarbone that he'd have to cover with a high collar or some concealer if he didn't want questions at lunch. The hot spray hit him a minute later, washing away the sweat and the remnants of last night, but not the way his mind kept replaying bits of it: Ilya's hands, that low voice murmuring in Russian, the way everything had felt too good to stop. By the time he stepped out, towel around his waist, the fog on the mirror had cleared a little, and he felt more like himself. He dressed quick and grabbed his keys, heading for the door. The city streets were bustling when he stepped out, people bundled against the cold, cars slushing through the half-melted snow. He walked the few blocks to his car, mind already on the drive to the restaurant.

Shane pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant fifteen minutes late, the kind of delay that made his stomach twist even though he knew nobody would really hold it against him. He locked the car, jogged across the slushy pavement, and pushed through the door into the warm smell of coffee and fresh bread. The place was busy but not packed—Saturday lunch crowd still building—and he spotted his family right away at their usual corner table by the window. His mom waved immediately, bright smile lighting up her face, while his dad gave a small, steady nod.

He slid into the empty chair, already breathing out apologies. “Sorry, sorry. Traffic was worse than I thought, and I overslept a little. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

His mom reached over and squeezed his hand right away, warm and soft the way she always did. “Honey, don’t even worry about it. You look exhausted. I saw the pictures Hayden posted from last night, dinner at their place looked like fun. You deserve to sleep in once in a while.”

Shane’s heart did a quick, ugly flip in his chest. Pictures. He hadn’t even thought to check Instagram after everything went down. He forced his face to stay neutral, just a quick nod and a half-smile while his brain screamed at him to look later and make sure Ilya wasn’t in any of them. The last thing he needed was his mom asking casual questions about the tall Russian guy hanging around his friends. “Yeah, it was nice. The girls were wild as usual.”

His dad leaned forward a little, voice quiet and gentle like always. “You’ve been putting in long hours, son. Too many, if you ask me. You should take some time off soon, real time. Get out of the city, maybe. Recharge.”

Shane managed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, Dad. Just hard to step away right now.”

Rose leaned forward, elbows on the table, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. “I’ve been telling him that since we were dating. Vacations, downtime, actual hobbies that aren’t running at dawn or reading medical journals in bed. He never listened to me either.”

Shane shot her a half-smile. “You’re ganging up on me now?”

His mom laughed lightly, but there was that familiar undercurrent in her voice, the one she probably didn’t even hear anymore. “He’s got a goal, Rose. The ER’s been looking for someone to step up and run it for years, and everyone knows Shane’s at the top of the list. That kind of position doesn’t just fall in your lap, you have to earn it. He’s doing exactly what he needs to do.”

Shane felt the weight settle on his shoulders the way it always did when she talked about his career like that. Not mean, just proud in a way that came with invisible expectations he’d been carrying since med school. She was the legendary OB-GYN who still got calls from colleagues across the country for consults, the one who’d built a private practice that ran like clockwork while raising him and still managing to volunteer at free clinics. Legacy was a nice word until you were the one trying to live up to it. He nodded anyway, because arguing never changed anything. “Yeah. It’s close. They’re talking about interviews soon.”

His mom glanced at the server who’d just set down a plate in front of the empty spot, grilled chicken, quinoa, roasted vegetables, the usual protein, sensible meal she always ordered for him when she got there first. “I went ahead and got yours. Figured you’d want something solid after a long week.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He picked up his fork, even though his appetite had mostly vanished somewhere between waking up tangled in sheets that smelled like Ilya and realizing how many people might have seen him with the guy last night. He took a bite anyway, chewed mechanically, tasted nothing.

She watched him for a second, then sighed in that fond, nostalgic way. “I still can’t believe you and Rose aren’t together anymore. You two looked so good as a couple. Perfect, really.”

Shane set his fork down carefully. “It’s been six months, Mom. We’re good now. Better, honestly.”

Rose snorted a laugh, reaching over to steal a piece of broccoli off his plate. “Yeah, we talk way more now than we ever did when we were dating. Turns out we make awesome friends. Who knew?”

His dad looked at Rose with that same gentle warmth he gave everyone. “You’ll always be family, sweetheart. No matter what.”

Rose’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Mr. H. Means a lot.”

Shane took another bite of chicken even though it tasted like cardboard, listening to them all move on to safer topics, Rose’s upcoming trip to Toronto, his mom’s holiday party plans—while his mind kept drifting back to those Instagram pictures he still hadn’t seen. His phone buzzed in his pocket once, twice. He ignored it for now, but the vibration felt like a reminder that the rest of his life—the messy, complicated part—was still waiting just outside this cozy little bubble of family lunch.

Lunch dragged on a bit longer than Shane expected, with his mom pulling out her phone to show everyone pictures from her latest volunteer trip and his dad telling the same old stories about fishing up north that always made Rose crack up. Shane nodded along, forcing himself to stay present, but that buzz in his pocket kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn't scratch. He finally excused himself after the coffee came, hugging his mom and Rose, clapping his dad on the back, and promising to call soon about that vacation idea. The restaurant door swung shut behind him, cutting off the warm chatter, and he stepped into the cold parking lot where the wind whipped up little flurries of old snow. His car was parked at the far end, tires crunching over the gritty salt as he walked over, keys already in hand. He slid into the driver's seat, shut the door against the chill, and finally pulled out his phone, thumbing the screen awake to see what the hell was up.

There were four messages from Ilya, stacked up like he couldn't wait five minutes between each one. The first popped up from about an hour ago: "Hey, Doc. You up yet? Thinking we grab lunch. I know a spot that'd blow your mind." Shane rolled his eyes, but a tiny smirk tugged at his mouth anyway—the guy had no chill. Then the next one, ten minutes later: "You ignoring me? Come on, doc. Don't make me beg. Or do. Could be fun." Followed by another: "Shane? Earth to 
Dr Hollander. Your phone die or you just playing hard to get?" And the last one, just a few minutes back: "Fine, be that way. But I'm starving over here. Picturing you with bedhead still. Send proof of life? 😏" the guy looks like a big puppy that wouldn't stop nudging your leg for attention.

He stared at the screen for a second, fingers hovering, before tapping out a quick response: "Busy. Heading to work soon, no time for lunch or anything else." He hit send, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and started the engine, pulling out of the lot with the heater blasting to chase away the chill. The drive back to his apartment wasn't long, just enough time to let his thoughts wander—work shift starting in a couple hours, charts to review, maybe squeeze in a quick nap if he was lucky.

Shane turned onto his street, the afternoon sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the parked cars and the thin layer of snow clinging to the sidewalks. He spotted his building up ahead, pulled into his usual spot, and grabbed his keys, stepping out into the crisp air that smelled like exhaust and distant wood smoke from someone's fireplace. That's when he saw him—Ilya, leaning against the hood of a sleek black Mercedes that screamed money, arms crossed casual-like, sunglasses perched on his nose even though the light wasn't that bright. He looked straight out of a magazine ad, all tall frame in a fitted coat, light curls catching the breeze, that easy posture like he owned the whole damn block and was just waiting for the world to catch up.

Shane slowed his steps, a mix of irritation and something warmer bubbling up in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his voice even as he approached.

Ilya pushed off the car with a lazy grin, sliding the sunglasses up into his hair. "What, no hello? I thought we were past that, doc."

Shane stopped a few feet away, his keys still jingling in his hand from the walk over, the cold air nipping at his face as he tried to wrap his head around why this guy was parked right in front of his building like it was no big deal. The Mercedes gleamed under the weak afternoon light, all shiny and out of place next to the beat-up sedans lining the street, and Ilya just stood there looking way too comfortable, like he'd been waiting all day without a care. Shane felt that mix of annoyance and something else bubbling up again, the same pull that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

"What are you doing here?" Shane asked again, his voice coming out sharper this time, crossing his arms to keep some distance.

Ilya tilted his head a little, that grin fading into something more playful, like he was enjoying the chase way too much. "You ignore my texts, doc. So I come see you myself. Better this way, no?"

Shane shook his head, glancing around to make sure no neighbors were watching this weird standoff. "I'm busy. Got to head to work soon."

Ilya pushed off the car fully now, stepping a bit closer but not too close, his hands slipping into his coat pockets. "You eat lunch already?"

"Yeah, I did."

Ilya's face dropped into this exaggerated pout, his eyebrows knitting together like a kicked puppy, and he let out a dramatic sigh. "Ah, too bad. I want take you for lunch. Good place, you would like."

Shane felt his patience thinning, the lunch with his family still fresh in his mind, all those normal conversations clashing with whatever this was turning into. "Why are you doing all this? What do you even want from me?"

Ilya shrugged one shoulder, his eyes locking onto Shane's with that intense stare that always made everything feel too personal. "Just want know you better, doc."

Shane let out a frustrated breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "I already told you, this isn't happening."

Ilya broke into a slow smile then, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look even more dangerous. "Not what it seem like last night, though."

Shane's jaw tightened, heat rushing to his cheeks as he turned on his heel, starting toward the building entrance with quick steps, anger bubbling up hot and fast. "Bye."

Ilya's hand shot out, grabbing Shane's arm gently but firm enough to stop him mid-stride. "Wait, don't go like that."

Shane yanked his arm free, his voice coming out cold and clipped. "I need to get to work."

Ilya didn't back off, just held his hands up a little like he was surrendering, but his eyes stayed locked on. "Let me drive you there. Easy."

Shane glanced back at his own car parked nearby, the practical one that fit his life just fine. "What about getting back? I got my car here."

Ilya waved it off with a casual flick of his hand. "I pick you up after shift. Then we get coffee, talk little."

Shane paused, turning fully to face him again, the wind picking up and ruffling his hair. "You're not giving up on this, are you?"

Ilya shook his head, that smile creeping back. "Нет."

Shane stared at Ilya for a beat longer, weighing the headache of arguing against the headache of being late to his shift, then let out a long breath through his nose. “Fine. Wait in the car. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ilya’s grin widened like he’d just won something big. “I wait.”

Shane turned without another word and headed inside, taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator always felt too slow when he was already irritated. Up in his apartment he stripped out of the lunch clothes fast, swapped them for fresh scrubs and a plain hoodie, grabbed his badge and wallet, and checked his reflection just long enough to make sure the marks on his neck were mostly hidden under the collar. He still looked like someone who hadn’t slept enough, but that was basically his default setting these days. A quick glance at the clock told him he had maybe ten minutes before he’d really be cutting it close. He locked up, jogged back down, and pushed through the lobby door into the cold again.

Ilya was leaning against the driver’s side door now, one foot propped on the curb, cigarette dangling between his fingers. Thin smoke curled up into the gray sky and the sharp smell hit Shane before he even got close. He stopped a couple steps away, frowning.

“You’re smoking? Seriously, that shit’s gonna kill you.”

Ilya took one last slow drag, then crushed the cigarette under his boot with a little shrug. “Maybe. But I quit for you, doc. Easy. One word and it’s gone forever.”

Shane rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Yeah, sure. Just get in the car before I change my mind and take the bus.”

Ilya chuckled low, opened the passenger door for him like some kind of gentleman from a bad movie, then circled around to the driver’s side. Shane slid in, the leather seat cold against his legs even through the scrubs. The interior smelled like expensive cologne and new car, nothing like the faint antiseptic and coffee stink of his own beat-up sedan. Ilya started the engine with a soft purr, but he didn’t pull away yet. Instead he turned in his seat, one arm draped over the wheel, blue eyes fixed on Shane’s face with that same hungry look from last night.

“One kiss before we go,” Ilya said, voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “Please.”

Shane shook his head once. “No.”

“Nobody see inside,” Ilya pressed, leaning in a fraction. “Windows dark. Just one. I miss your mouth so much already.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue, to tell him to drive, but Ilya was already closing the distance, slow enough that Shane could’ve stopped him if he really wanted to. He didn’t. The second their lips met everything inside him went stupidly quiet. Ilya kissed like he was starving for it, soft at first, then deeper, tongue sliding in with that same careful confidence he’d used everywhere else last night. Shane hated how good it felt—hated the way his body responded instantly, heat pooling low, hands fisting in the front of Ilya’s coat without meaning to. He hated that he liked it this much, liked the taste of him, the faint leftover smoke that should’ve been gross but somehow wasn’t.

He broke away before it could turn into more, breathing hard, forehead pressed to Ilya’s for a second while he tried to remember why this was a terrible idea. “Drive,” he said, voice wrecked. “Or I’m getting out and walking.”

Ilya’s smile was slow and smug as hell. He reached over, hit the lock button with a quiet click, then finally put the car in gear and eased out into traffic. The streets were busy enough that neither of them said much for the next few minutes. Shane stared out the window at the slushy sidewalks and passing storefronts, trying to get his pulse under control. Every time he glanced sideways Ilya was watching the road with that same lazy half-grin, like he knew exactly what Shane was thinking.

They pulled up to the main entrance of Montreal General right on time. Ilya killed the engine and turned toward him again, already leaning in.

“One more,” he murmured. “Goodbye kiss.”

Shane was already shaking his head. “Not happening.”

And because the universe apparently had a personal grudge against him, he caught sight of Hayden’s familiar silver SUV rolling into the staff lot across the way. Shit. If Hayden saw him sitting in some flashy black Mercedes making out with a guy who looked like trouble on legs, there’d be questions Shane wasn’t ready to answer. Without thinking he grabbed Ilya’s face, yanked him in, and kissed him hard—quick, messy, enough to shut him up and block the view.

Shane pulled back just as fast, cheeks burning. “There. Happy?”

Ilya’s eyes were bright, lips curved in that dangerous half-smile. “Very.” He caught his wrist lightly, thumb brushing over the pulse point. “Tomorrow. Seven. I pick you up.”

Shane didn’t answer, just got out and slammed the door a litttle harder the he wanted it. He didn’t look back as he walked toward the entrance, shoulders tight, the taste of Ilya still on his lips and the sound of that low laugh echoing in his head long after the Mercedes pulled away.

The shift turned into pure chaos the second Shane stepped through the doors. One trauma after another rolled in without giving anyone a second to breathe, car wrecks on the icy highways, a construction accident that left a guy with a compound fracture and internal bleeding, a domestic call that ended with two stab wounds and a lot of screaming. Shane barely had time to scarf down a protein bar between cases, let alone think about anything else. By the time he finally crashed onto the narrow cot in the on-call room around three in the morning, his whole body felt like it had been run over. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, but every time he started to drift the pager would go off again or someone would bang on the door for a consult. He managed maybe forty-five minutes total, broken into chunks, before he gave up and dragged himself back to the floor. Exhaustion sat heavy in his bones, the kind that made his hands feel clumsy and his thoughts slow. All he could focus on was getting through the last couple hours, clocking out, going home, standing under the hottest shower he could stand, and then collapsing face-first into bed for at least twelve straight hours. Coffee wasn’t cutting it anymore.

When the morning light finally started creeping through the high windows of the trauma bay, Shane peeled off his last pair of gloves, scrubbed out, and changed back into street clothes in the locker room without really registering what he was doing. His plan was simple: slip out to the parking lot early, catch Ilya before anyone else showed up, and shut down whatever coffee idea he had in mind. The guy would have to understand. Shane was dead on his feet; no way he could sit through small talk and flirting right now. He’d explain it quick, promise nothing, and go crash. Ilya had pushed hard enough already—he’d get it. He had to.

Shane pushed through the staff exit first, hoodie up against the biting wind, eyes scanning the lot for that stupid black Mercedes. Nothing. No sleek car idling near the curb, no tall figure leaning against a hood with a cigarette and that smug grin. He pulled out his phone, thumbed the screen awake. 7:10 a.m. No new messages, no missed calls, nothing since the night before. He stared at the empty spot where he half-expected to see the car parked, irritation prickling under his skin. Ilya had made such a big deal about showing up and now… gone. Just vanished.

Shane leaned against the brick wall near the entrance, arms crossed tight over his chest, watching the minutes tick by on his phone. 7:30 rolled around. Staff started trickling out in small groups, laughing about weekend plans, complaining about the cold, heading to their cars. Shane kept his eyes on the entrance to the lot, jaw tight, getting angrier by the second. The longer he stood there the dumber he felt—standing around like some idiot waiting for a guy who clearly didn’t care enough to follow through. He’d let himself get pulled into this mess, let Ilya under his skin, and for what? A no-show.

Hayden came out a few minutes later, still in his scrubs under an open jacket, laughing at something one of the night-shift nurses had said as they walked toward the lot. He spotted Shane right away, eyebrows shooting up.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing just standing out here freezing your ass off? Where’s your car?”

Shane shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, forcing his voice to stay even. “At home. Got a ride in.”

Hayden tilted his head, curious but easy. “Rose?”

Shane hesitated half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. She said she’d pick me up. Guess she overslept or something.”

Hayden laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Damn, that’s a shame. I always liked seeing her around. She’s good people.” He paused, giving Shane a teasing sideways look. “You two back on or what? Sneaky morning rides, late pickups, sounds familiar.”

Shane managed a weak snort, not trusting himself to say much. “Nah, just a favor. Don’t read into it.”

Hayden shrugged, already digging his keys out. “Well, since your ride’s a no-show and I’m headed your way anyway, hop in. I’ll drop you. No point standing here turning into a popsicle.”

Shane glanced one last time across the empty lot, the irritation twisting into something sharper and more disappointed than he wanted to admit. No black Mercedes. No Ilya. Nothing. He let out a short breath that fogged in the cold air, then nodded.

“Yeah. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Shane settled into the passenger seat of Hayden’s SUV, the heater blasting warm air that smelled faintly of old coffee and the pine air freshener Jackie always hung from the rearview. Hayden pulled out of the lot smoothly, chatting away like nothing was weird about any of this, but Shane barely registered the words at first. His jaw was locked so tight he could feel the ache spreading up into his temples, teeth grinding in slow, angry circles while he stared out at the passing buildings without really seeing them.

“…so anyway, don’t beat yourself up about it, man,” Hayden was saying, glancing over with that easy half-grin. “She probably just crashed hard after her shift. You know how it goes—oversleep happens. No need to look like you’re about to chew through the seatbelt.”

Shane blinked, forced his mouth to relax. He hadn’t even realized he was grinding his molars. “I’m not pissed,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face like that would wipe the expression away. “Just tired. Really fucking tired.” He changed the subject fast before Hayden could dig. “How’s Jackie doing anyway? When’s the baby due?”

Hayden’s whole face softened the way it always did when he talked about his family. “Couple more weeks, give or take. Can’t believe it. Three kids under five? I’m gonna need a vacation just to recover from the delivery.”

Shane let out a small, tired huff that almost passed for a laugh. “You’ll figure it out. Need anything, though—extra hands, someone to watch the twins for a bit—just say it. I can swing it.”

Hayden grinned, turning onto Shane’s street. “Careful what you offer, Hollander. Don’t come crying to me when I show up at your door at six a.m. with two hyper five-year-olds and a bag of snacks, saying ‘Have fun, Uncle Shane, I’m going to nap for three days.’”

Shane managed a real smile at that, small but genuine. “Deal. Just warn me so I can hide the breakables.”

They both laughed, the sound filling the car for a second before Hayden pulled up to the curb outside Shane’s building. Shane grabbed his bag from the floorboard. “Thanks for the ride,” Shane said, leaning down to meet Hayden’s eyes through the open window. “Tell Jackie hi for me.”

“Will do. Get some sleep, yeah? You look like hell.”

Shane gave a tired wave and headed inside, the lobby quiet except for the hum of the elevator. Up in his apartment he kicked the door shut behind him, dropped his bag by the couch, and just stood there for a second, breathing. The anger came rushing back fast—hot, stupid, embarrassing. He felt like the world’s biggest idiot, standing in that parking lot like a kicked puppy waiting for someone who clearly didn’t give enough of a shit to show. All that pushing, all those texts, and the kisses, and then nothing. Radio silence. He pulled his phone out, thumb hovering over Ilya’s contact. Call him? Yell? Ask what the hell? Text something harsh and final? He almost hit the call button twice before he stopped himself, muttering out loud into the empty room.

“Stop being such a fucking moron, Shane. Just drop it.”

He opened the contact anyway, stared at the block button for a long minute. One tap and it would be done—no more texts, no more showing up unannounced, no more of that low voice and those hands and the way everything felt too good to be safe. He could forget the whole thing, change his routine, maybe even look into a new place farther from the hospital if it meant never running into the guy again. Maybe his dad was right; maybe he really did need a break, some time away where no one knew his name or his schedule or how easy it apparently was to get under his skin.

He gave up on the phone, tossed it onto the couch, and headed for the bathroom. The shower was scalding, steam so thick he could barely see the tiles, and he stood under it until his skin turned pink and the water started to run cold. By the time he crawled into bed, still damp, exhaustion finally won. He was out before his head fully hit the pillow.

He slept through the whole day and into the night, dead to the world, no dreams, just heavy black nothing. When he woke it was to a sharp knocking on the front door—insistent, not polite. The clock on his nightstand glowed 1:47 a.m. His heart kicked hard once, adrenaline spiking through the fog. Who the hell was banging on his door at this hour? He rolled out of bed, grabbed the aluminum baseball bat he kept leaning against the dresser for exactly nights like this, and padded barefoot down the hall. The knocking came again, weaker this time.

“Who is it?” he called, voice low, bat raised.

A rough voice answered from the other side, thick with something that sounded like pain. “It’s Ilya.”

Shane’s grip tightened on the bat. “Bullshit.”

A wet cough, then quieter, strained. “Doc… please. Open the fucking door.”

Shane froze. That was Ilya’s voice, no question, but wrecked—hoarse, like every word cost him. He flipped the deadbolt, cracked the door with the chain still on, bat ready.

Ilya was slumped against the frame, one hand braced on the wall, the other pressed to his side where dark blood soaked through his shirt and dripped steadily onto the hallway carpet. His face was a mess—split lip, one eye already swelling shut, fresh cuts across his cheekbone. He looked like he’d been used as a punching bag and then dragged here. His legs buckled as the door opened wider and he started to slide down.

Shane dropped the bat with a clatter and lunged forward, catching him under the arms before he hit the floor. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you?”

Ilya tried to straighten, failed, breath coming in shallow gasps. Shane half-carried, half-dragged him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. Blood smeared on the threshold. Ilya’s weight sagged heavier against him, head dropping to Shane’s shoulder for a second like he couldn’t hold it up anymore. Shane got him to the couch, eased him down carefully, already scanning for how bad it really was—how much blood loss, how deep the wounds, whether anything looked like it needed pressure or a call to 911 right now. Ilya’s hand caught weakly at his wrist, blue eyes glassy but focused.

Shane leaned in close, voice low and urgent. “Who did this to you?”

Chapter 7: Taken

Chapter Summary

Svetlana sheathed the knife with an almost sheepish shrug, wiping a streak of blood off her palm onto her jeans. “Look, in my defense, I walk into an apartment I don’t know, see some random woman letting herself in, and my guy’s half-dead on the couch somewhere. I got protective. Sue me.”

Rose let out a shaky, incredulous laugh that bordered on hysterical. “Protective? You almost gave me a tracheotomy!”

“Yeah, well.” Svetlana lifted one shoulder. “Sorry about that. Won’t happen again. Probably.”

Ilya dragged a hand down his face, ignoring the way it pulled at his swollen eye. “Jesus Christ. Everybody just breathe for a second.”

Shane rubbed slow circles on Rose’s back, murmuring something soft near her ear until her breathing evened out. Then he looked up at Ilya again, and there was this tiny, reluctant spark of amusement buried under all the stress.

“Welcome to my life,” he said dryly. “Apparently it’s a circus now.”

Chapter Notes

Ilya couldn’t stop grinning the whole drive back from the hospital. That quick, reckless kiss kept replaying in his mind, buzzing on his lips like some kind of high he didn’t want to come down from. He'd promised to pick him up tomorrow morning, and for once it felt like something solid, not just another game. He’d promised to pick Shane up tomorrow morning, and for once, it felt real. Not just another game or fleeting moment that would evaporate into nothing. By the time he pulled up in front of his apartment building, the fancy one tucked away in a quiet corner of the city where neighbors minded their own business and the doorman pretended not to notice his odd hours, Ilya was already planning ahead: maybe a quick shower, pour himself a drink, crash early so he could show up fresh and make the doc regret brushing him off again.

He killed the engine, stepped out into the biting cold that nipped at his skin, and locked the Mercedes with a beep that echoed off the brick walls. The grin still lingered as he headed toward the entrance, keys jingling loose in his pocket, his thoughts full of freckles, brown eyes, and the way Shane’s voice cracked when he got flustered.

Something hard slammed into the back of his skull before he even heard footsteps, a blunt force that sent stars exploding across his vision and dropped him to one knee on the icy pavement. Pain erupted hot and sharp, radiating down his neck, but instinct kicked in fast. He twisted around, one hand shooting up to block whatever came next, the other reaching for the knife he always kept strapped inside his jacket. Through the blur, he caught a glimpse of shadows—two, maybe three figures in dark coats, faces hidden under hoods pulled low. Before he could react, another blow landed, sharper this time—the unmistakable feel of a pistol butt smashing into his temple. Blood filled his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue, and the world tilted sideways. His arms felt heavy as he tried to push himself back up.

Chapter End Notes

Hey everyone,

I’m so sorry for the long delay with the new chapter!

My computer decided to stop working completely, so right now I’m writing everything on my phone.

I’m doing my best to keep going, but it’s taking me longer than usual. I really appreciate your patience and all the sweet messages, they mean the world to me and keep me motivated!

Thank you so much for sticking with me 💜

Chapter 8: Glasses and Ghosts

Chapter Summary

Shane stared at him for a beat, then reached over and carefully slid his glasses off, setting them on the nightstand. Ilya made a small protesting noise.

“No, put them back.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Put the glasses back on.” Ilya’s hand found Shane’s hip under the covers, fingers curling loosely. “Want to look at you wearing them. Looks… nice.”

Shane kept his arm around Rose's shoulders, murmuring quiet words while she clung to him, her breathing still coming in shaky bursts. She was trembling against his chest, eyes darting between the strangers in the room like she half-expected another blade to appear out of nowhere. Ilya and Svetlana had switched to Russian, their voices low and urgent, tossing words back and forth that might as well have been code for all Shane could make out. It grated on him, that wall of language shutting him out right in his own apartment, but he focused on Rose instead, rubbing her back in slow circles until she finally pulled away enough to look up at him.

"Who are these people, Shane?" she whispered, her voice pitching higher with confusion. "How do you even know them? This isn't... this isn't you."

He sighed, glancing over at Ilya, who was leaning against the wall like he might slide down it any second. "It's a complicated mess, Rose. Way more than I can unpack right now. But you gotta head home. I don't want you anywhere near this."

Her eyes widened, worry etching deeper lines around them. "Home? Are you kidding? After that? I'm not leaving you alone with... with whatever this is. I'll stay, help you figure it out."

Ilya caught the tail end of that, his busted lip quirking up in a faint grin despite the pain it must've cost him. "She's sweet. But no worries, red. Nobody's touching your doc. Promise."

Rose opened her mouth to protest, cheeks flushing with a mix of fear and frustration, but Shane cut in before she could get the words out. "Rose, please. Just go. I'll call you soon, okay? I swear."

She searched his face for a long beat, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But if I don't hear from you in the next day, I'm calling Detective Hunter. He'll track you down whether you like it or not."

Shane managed a tight smile. "Deal."

She grabbed her bag from where it'd fallen near the door, shooting one last wary glance at everyone before stepping out. As she brushed past Svetlana, the woman turned and flashed her a soft smile, almost radiant, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Rose's face went pink all over again, and she hurried through the door without another word, pulling it shut behind her with a soft click.

The second the latch caught, Svetlana dropped the sweetness, turning to Ilya with a sharp edge in her voice. "We gotta move, Roz. I swung by the apartment after dropping you off , barely snagged our passports in time. Place was a wreck when I left, furniture flipped, drawers dumped. They hit it hard right after I bounced."

Shane's head whipped around, piecing it together faster than he wanted to. Leaving? Like, out of Montreal? Out of Canada? He stared at Ilya, the words tumbling out half to the room and half to himself. "You're not seriously thinking about hopping on a flight like this. You'd never make it through the gate without collapsing."

Ilya waved off Shane's concern with a casual flick of his hand, like the whole idea of keeling over mid-travel was just a minor inconvenience. "I'm good, Doc. Been through worse. A little plane ride won't kill me."

Shane crossed his arms, staring him down with that clinical glare that cut right through bullshit. "You've got at least a couple fractured ribs from whatever hell you crawled out of. The smart move would be getting your ass to a real ER for proper imaging and pain management before you puncture a lung or something equally stupid."

Svetlana snorted from where she leaned against the counter, her thigh still seeping a slow trickle through the makeshift bandage. " That's barely a scratch. Kid stuff."

Shane's eyes flicked to her leg, narrowing at the jagged line of red peeking through the fabric. "And that slice on your thigh looks like it could use some actual cleaning. Flush it out properly or it'll get infected, turn into a whole mess you don't want."

She shot Ilya a sidelong glance and muttered something quick in Russian, her tone laced with amusement.

Ilya chuckled low, responding in the same language, a short string of words that ended with a knowing nod.

Shane's patience snapped like a rubber band. He turned on Ilya, frustration boiling over. "English. Now. Or are we just gonna pretend I'm not in the room?"

Ilya held up his hands in mock surrender, that crooked grin creeping back despite the bruises. "She said you're bossy. That's all."

Shane's cheeks heated, but he played it off with a shrug. "I was offering help. If you two wanna bail and drop dead halfway to wherever, fine by me. Not my circus anymore."

He spun on his heel, heading for the bedroom door, shoulders squared like he could walk off the whole tangled knot of worry and anger knotting up his gut.

Ilya caught him before he made it two steps, fingers hooking around Shane's waist and pulling him back flush against his chest. He leaned in close, breath warm against Shane's ear. "Give me a minute with her. We'll sort this. Then I'm coming in there to talk. Just us."

Shane twisted free, heart hammering from the contact. "Do whatever the hell you want. I don't give a damn."

A couple minutes ticked by in heavy silence before Ilya shuffled into the bedroom, his limp more pronounced now that the adrenaline was fading. He eased down onto the edge of the mattress right beside Shane, close enough that their thighs brushed, but Shane kept his gaze fixed on the wall, arms folded tight across his chest like a barrier.

"Doc," Ilya said softly, his voice thick with that rough edge. "I gotta go. Can't pull you into this shit. Too dangerous."

Shane let out a bitter huff, still not turning. "Yeah, whatever floats your boat. Need me to call a cab to the airport? Maybe wave goodbye from the curb?"

Ilya reached over, fingers gentle but insistent as they cupped Shane's chin and tilted his face around. Those blue eyes searched his, sharp despite the swelling. "You are mad, yes? Doctor cares so much about me?"

Shane's pulse jumped under the touch, but he held steady. "I'm a surgeon. Taking care of people who show up beat to hell is kinda the gig. Doesn't mean anything special."

Ilya shifted closer, the air between them turning thick and charged, his breath ghosting warm across Shane's skin as he leaned in slow. "That all I am? Just patient?"

Shane jerked back, breaking the contact, his cheeks burning. "Pretty much. So if you're done using my couch as a bleed-out station, door's that way."

Ilya stared at him for a beat, then pushed himself up with a quiet wince, steadying on the bedframe. "Thanks for everything, Dr. Hollander. Really."

He turned and hobbled out, leaving Shane alone on the bed. Shane dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as the room spun with second thoughts. This was for the best, clean cut, no loose ends. Getting tangled up in whatever storm Ilya carried around would wreck everything he'd built, the steady life, the rules that kept him grounded. Guy was pure chaos wrapped in charm, and Shane had no room for that.

But then his feet were moving before his brain caught up, carrying him back to the living room where Ilya was gathering up his jacket and whatever else he'd scattered. Svetlana hovered nearby, already halfway into a sentence, her expression all business.

"I've got a spot," Shane blurted, the words hanging awkward in the air. "Up north, family cottage nobody uses this time of year. You two could hole up there till you're not falling apart. Then bail wherever."

Svetlana opened her mouth, probably to shoot it down, but Ilya cut her off sharp.

"Okay."

Shane kept his eyes on the dark highway stretching out ahead, the headlights carving clean slices through the night while the heater hummed low against the winter chill seeping in at the edges of the windows. Two hours of steady driving had passed in mostly quiet stretches, broken only by the occasional soft snore from the back seat where Ilya had finally crashed out, head tipped awkwardly against the window, one arm draped protectively over his bandaged side even in sleep. Svetlana sat shotgun, legs stretched out as much as the passenger space allowed, her head resting back against the seat while she watched the passing trees blur into black shapes.

After a long beat of nothing but road noise, she spoke without looking at him. "Why are you doing this? Driving us out here in the middle of nowhere. You don't owe us shit."

Shane's fingers flexed on the wheel, knuckles whitening for a second before he forced them to relax. "Because I'm apparently an idiot who can't stay away from trouble when it shows up bleeding at my door. And because I know damn well he wouldn't make it through airport security, let alone a flight. One wrong jostle and those ribs turn into something that needs a chest tube. I'm not in the mood to read about that in the news tomorrow."

Svetlana turned her head just enough to study his profile in the dim glow from the dashboard. "He's all I've got left. If something happens to him out here..."

The words hung unfinished, raw in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in Shane's chest, jealousy maybe, or envy, or just the sharp reminder that he was the outsider in this equation. He drew in a slow breath through his nose and kept his voice even. "He's gonna be fine. Rest, no stress, no more fights. We'll keep him stable till he's strong enough to decide what comes next."

She let out a small, humorless laugh. "He was the one pushing to leave the country. Said he didn't wanna drag you into the mess. I still don't get why he flipped the script and agreed to stay. One minute he's ready to vanish, next he's nodding at your cottage idea like it's the best plan he's ever heard."

Shane's jaw tightened. "That's on me. I should've hauled his stubborn ass straight to the hospital instead of playing field medic on my couch. At least there he'd have real monitors, real meds, people who know what they're doing. Now we're driving to some lake house like this is a vacation instead of damage control."

Svetlana actually chuckled at that, the sound low and surprised. "You really think a hospital would've kept him safe? With Alexei's people sniffing around? Nah."

Shane didn't argue, just flicked the turn signal and eased the car onto a narrower road that wound through pines heavy with snow. The silence stretched again, comfortable this time, until he glanced sideways at her leg. "How's the thigh holding up? Any heat, swelling, red streaks?"

She tugged up the hem of her pants just enough to show the clean white gauze he'd taped down earlier. "Feels good. No fever, no throbbing. Thanks for that, by the way. Didn't exactly have time to swing by a pharmacy."

He shrugged one shoulder. "No need to thank me. Just doing my job."

They didn't speak again for the next half hour. The road narrowed, trees crowding closer until the headlights finally caught the glint of water ahead—a small, private lake ringed by evergreens, the surface flat and dark under the moon. The cottage sat at the end of a short gravel drive: low-slung cedar siding, wide wraparound windows that let the interior lights spill out warm and golden, a wraparound porch dusted with fresh snow. It looked almost too peaceful for the mess trailing behind them.

Shane killed the engine and they stepped out into the sharp cold. Ilya stirred in the back, groaning as he pushed himself upright, but managed to climb out under his own power. Svetlana paused just inside the doorway, eyes tracking across the wall of glass that faced the lake.

"These windows," she said, voice tight. "Too exposed."

Shane reached past her to a sleek panel on the wall and handed her a small remote. "Motorized shutters. One button and they drop down, blackout everything. Nobody sees in unless I want them to."

She tested it once, watching the heavy panels slide smoothly into place, then nodded approval. Shane glanced around the open living space, stone fireplace, thick rugs, a kitchen that smelled faintly of pine cleaner. "Fridge is probably empty. There's a decent market about twenty minutes back, the one we passed on the way in. I can run and grab some food, pain meds, whatever."

Svetlana was already snagging his keys off the entry table. "I got it. You stay with him. I'll be quick."

Before Shane could protest she was out the door, taillights disappearing down the drive. The cottage settled into sudden quiet. Ilya had made it as far as the wide leather couch and dropped onto it with a heavy sigh, stretching out long legs and tipping his head back against the cushions.

"Doc," he called, voice rough from sleep and pain.

Shane crossed the room, concern sharpening his features. "What? Do you need something?"

Ilya cracked one eye open, then the other, and that slow, crooked smile spread across his split lip despite the obvious effort it took. "Yeah. I need something."

Shane knelt beside the couch, already reaching to check the bandage on Ilya’s side. "Where's it hurting? Talk to me."

Ilya caught his wrist gently, guiding Shane's hand up until his fingers brushed the edge of that bruised mouth. "Here. My lips hurt. Been hurting all day from not kissing the doctor."

Shane froze for half a second, heat crawling up his neck even as he tried to school his expression into something professional. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't joke," Ilya murmured, thumb tracing slow over Shane's knuckles. "Come here. Fix it."

Shane tried to pull back, muscles tensing as he planted one hand on the couch cushion to lever himself up and away, but Ilya was faster—even hurt, even half-broken, his grip stayed firm around Shane's wrist. With a gentle but insistent tug he drew Shane down instead, guiding him to perch on the narrow edge of the sofa right beside him, close enough that Shane could feel the heat rolling off Ilya's body through the borrowed sweatshirt.

"Just one kiss, Doc," Ilya murmured, voice low and gravel-rough, thumb brushing slow along the inside of Shane's wrist like he was mapping a pulse point. "One. Please."

Shane shook his head, the motion small and stubborn. "No. I'm not here for that. I'm here because you were bleeding out in my living room, not because—"

Ilya laughed, soft and wrecked, the sound catching on his split lip. He lifted his free hand, fingers skating feather-light along Shane's jaw, tracing the line of stubble before cupping the back of his neck. The touch was slow, deliberate, pulling Shane in inch by careful inch until their foreheads nearly touched and Shane could smell the faint trace of antiseptic still clinging to Ilya's skin under the lake-house pine.

"Svetlana will be back any minute," Shane said, the protest coming out thin, his breath brushing Ilya's mouth.

Ilya’s eyes flicked to the front door for half a second, then back, darkening. "She take long time at store." And then he closed the last distance, lips pressing to Shane's in a kiss that started careful, testing, but deepened the moment Shane didn't shove him away.

Between slow, lazy slides of tongue, Ilya whispered against his mouth, "She be gone little longer. Relax, Doc."

Shane felt like the world's biggest idiot. His hands stayed fisted in the front of Ilya's shirt instead of pushing, his body leaning in instead of pulling back, because god help him he didn't want to stop. The kiss was warm and unhurried, Ilya's mouth careful around the cuts but still hungry in a way that made Shane's stomach flip. Every time their lips met it was the same stupid rush, the same electric pull that short-circuited every rational thought he'd ever had about keeping distance, about rules, about not getting involved with a walking disaster who carried Russian curses and knife scars like accessories. He liked it. He liked the scrape of stubble, the faint metallic taste of blood under Ilya's lip, the way Ilya's fingers tightened in his hair.

Worse, he wanted to kiss back harder. Wanted to slide his tongue deeper, wanted to mark something, claim something, stake some ridiculous territorial flag because the thought of Svetlana—of anyone—knowing Ilya this well, seeing him unguarded, laughing at inside jokes in a language Shane couldn't touch, burned low and ugly in his chest. Jealousy, sharp and unfamiliar, coiled tight behind his ribs. He didn't even know the guy's full story and already he hated that someone else did.

For one dizzy second the questions flooded in uninvited: why was his brother is such a monster that Ilya had to run halfway across the world? What kind of life had carved those old scars across his ribs, taught him to smile through a beating like it was Tuesday? Why did the idea of Ilya actually leaving—packing up, disappearing back into whatever shadows had spat him out—make every cell in Shane's body scream no?

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, forehead resting against Ilya's, eyes squeezed shut. "This is insane."

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, thumb stroking the shell of Shane's ear. "Yeah. But good insane, maybe."

Ilya didn't give Shane time to overthink it. He tugged him back in with a hand firm at the small of his back, closing the gap until their mouths met again, slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second he could steal. His fingers dug into Shane's waist, not rough but possessive, pulling their hips flush so Shane could feel the solid heat of him even through layers of borrowed clothes. Shane made a small, involuntary sound—half gasp, half something softer—and Ilya broke off just enough to murmur against his lips.

"Love that little noise you make," he said, voice wrecked and pleased. "Makes me crazy, Doc."

Shane's laugh came out shaky, more breath than sound. "You're an asshole."

Ilya only hummed in agreement, already tipping Shane's head back with a gentle thumb under his chin so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down the side of his throat. Tongue flicked over the pulse point, then teeth grazed—not hard enough to mark, just enough to make Shane's breath hitch and his fingers curl tighter into Ilya's shirt. A slow lick followed, then another soft bite that pulled a full-body shiver out of him. Shane's mind was screaming at him to stop, to shove away, to remember who he was: the guy who'd mapped out every major life decision since he was old enough to understand consequences. Med school, residency, attending track, all color-coded calendars and five-year plans and zero room for detours. Control had always been the only thing that made sense in a world that threw chaos at people every day in the trauma bay. And now here he was, half-sprawled on a couch in the middle of nowhere, letting a bruised-up Russian runaway lick stripes up his neck.

He hated it. Hated how good it felt, how his body arched into every touch without permission, how his brain kept short-circuiting between "get up right now" and "don't you dare stop." This was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of impulsive shit that ended careers, families, lives. Yet his hands stayed fisted in Ilya's hoodie instead of pushing, his head tipped farther to give better access, because walking away would mean admitting he wanted this—wanted him—and that terrified him more than any knife wound ever could.

The crunch of gravel under tires snapped through the quiet like a gunshot.

Shane jerked back so fast he nearly toppled off the couch edge, heart slamming against his ribs. Ilya let out a low, frustrated curse in Russian, dropping his head back against the cushion with a groan.

"Perfect fucking timing," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Shane stood on unsteady legs, dragging both hands through his hair as headlights swept across the shutters. His mouth still tingled, skin flushed hot where Ilya's teeth had been, and he felt like he'd been caught doing something criminal. "I—I have to go," he said, voice coming out rougher than he meant. "Shift starts soon. I need to head back, get ready for work."

Ilya watched him from the couch, eyes dark and knowing, that crooked smile tugging at his busted lip again despite everything. "You running away already, Doc?"

Shane didn't answer, just turned toward the door, grabbing his keys off the entry table with shake fingers The sound of Svetlana's boots on the porch steps was getting closer, and all he could think was that he needed distance, needed the sterile calm of the hospital, needed anything that would let him pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened.

Nearly five days had passed by since Shane had dropped Ilya off at the cottage, and he'd done a damn good job of pretending none of it had happened. Messages had piled up on his phone from an unknown number he knew was Ilya's. Simple stuff like checking in on his day or admitting he missed seeing the doctor, but Shane had swiped them away without replying, burying himself in anything that could drown out the noise in his head. He'd laced up his running shoes for longer routes than usual, pounding pavement until his lungs burned and his mind went blank. Evenings got filled with medical journals or whatever book was on his nightstand, words blurring together as he forced focus. Work shifts stretched longer by choice, volunteering for extra hours in the ER where the chaos felt safer than silence. Hell, he'd even offered to watch Pike's kids one afternoon, chasing after the little ones with their endless energy and sticky hands, laughing through the exhaustion because it beat sitting alone with his thoughts. But nothing stuck; confusion twisted around every quiet moment, pulling him back to questions he couldn't answer, decisions he wasn't ready to make, like why that one kiss kept replaying or why letting go felt impossible.

The shift that day was grinding through its midpoint when his phone started buzzing in his pocket, persistent vibrations cutting through the hum of the ER. He knew the drill by now, another text from Ilya, probably something about how he was doing or wanting to see him again. Shane tried to ignore it, focusing on the chart in front of him, but the damn thing wouldn't stop, shifting from buzz to full ring. He stepped into a quiet corner, yanked it out, and answered with a snap, irritation spilling over.

"Can't you take a hint, Mr. Rozanov?"

"About time you picked up," Svetlana's voice came through, sharp and edged with frustration. "Ilya's burning up with fever, muttering nonsense, and the pills aren't touching it. Tell me what to do."

Shane froze, the words hitting like ice water, shock locking him in place for a beat before his brain kicked back in. "I'm on my way."

"No, just say what—"

He hung up before she could finish, already moving. He grabbed a bag from his locker, stuffing it with antibiotics, saline, needles, dressings—whatever he could snag from supplies without raising flags. Pike was at the nurses' station when Shane approached, face set in that no-nonsense way.

"Emergency came up. I have to head out."

Pike nodded once, no questions, just a quick clap on the shoulder. "Go. I've got it covered."

Hours blurred on the dark highway, Shane's grip tight on the wheel as snow flurries danced in the headlights, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios: sepsis, organ failure, complications from those fractured ribs. By the time he pulled up to the cottage, the porch light cut through the night, and Svetlana was waiting at the door, face drawn tight with worry she tried to hide. She led him straight to the main bedroom without a word, the air inside thick with the stale heat of illness.

Ilya lay sprawled on the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, skin slick with sweat that plastered his curls to his forehead. His breaths came shallow and ragged, cheeks flushed an unnatural red, and every few seconds he'd mutter fragments in Russian, disjointed words that tumbled out like pleas or warnings, his head tossing weakly on the pillow. Shane switched to autopilot, the professional calm settling over him like armor, years of training narrowing his world to assessment and action. He set the bag down, snapped on gloves, and started with vitals: temperature at 103.8, pulse racing at 110, blood pressure low enough to flag dehydration. Gentle fingers probed Ilya's side, peeling back the old dressing to reveal the rib laceration red, swollen, angry, infection clear as day from whatever grime had snuck in during the chaos.

"Easy," Shane murmured, voice steady and low as he worked, even though Ilya probably couldn't hear him through the haze. He cleaned the wound methodically, irrigating with saline to flush out the debris, his movements precise, no wasted motion, every step calculated to minimize pain and risk. Antibiotics went in next via injection, the needle sliding smooth into muscle, followed by an IV line he taped securely to Ilya's arm, starting a drip of fluids mixed with fever reducers. He adjusted the pillows under Ilya's head for better airway, checked pupils for any sign of deeper trouble, listened to lungs with a stethoscope he'd brought—clear, no crackles, good. This was why they talked about him for ER chief: the way he could command a crisis without flinching, prioritizing threats, adapting on the fly, turning chaos into order with hands that never shook under pressure.

Through it all, Ilya kept murmuring, words slurring into each other, and a name slipped out a few times—Sasha—soft and broken, like a memory pulling him under. Shane's brow furrowed, confusion flickering behind his focus, but he pushed it aside, staying locked on the task.

"It's gonna be alright," he said quietly, wiping a cool cloth over Ilya's forehead, holding it there until the tension in those features eased a fraction. "Just hang in there."

Minutes ticked by, the fever starting to break as sweat beaded heavier, Ilya's mutters fading into exhausted silence until he finally slipped into real sleep, breaths evening out.

Shane stepped back, peeling off gloves, and headed to the living room where Svetlana paced near the window, arms crossed tight.

"How is he?"

"Improving. The wound got infected, but I've got it under control, antibiotics should knock it out, fluids will help the rest."

They stood in awkward quiet for a stretch, the fire crackling in the background, Shane's mind churning: ask about the name or let it go, pretend it didn't snag in his chest like a hook. Before he could decide, his mouth moved on its own.

"Who's Sasha?"

Svetlana blinked, head tilting in confusion. "What?"

"He kept saying the name while he was out of it."

She shrugged, casual like it was old news. "His first boyfriend. Back in Russia."

That irrational jealousy surged up again, hot and twisting in Shane's gut, making him feel stupid and exposed. He muttered something vague about needing air and pushed through the door, stepping out into the biting cold where wind whipped snow across his face. What the hell was this? He leaned against the porch rail, staring at the dark lake, trying to make sense of the mess inside him—jealousy over some ghost from Ilya's past, a guy he didn't know, didn't have any right to care about. But it burned anyway, sharp and unwelcome, because thinking about Ilya with anyone else, sharing those crooked smiles or quiet moments, felt like a punch. And underneath it all, the bigger confusion: what did he even feel for Ilya? Attraction, sure, that pull he couldn't shake, but was it more? Care? Something that could wreck his careful life? He rubbed his hands over his face, cold air stinging his skin, questions looping without answers, pulling him deeper into the tangle he'd been running from.

A few minutes passed with Shane still leaning on the porch rail, the cold sinking through his sweater and into his bones, when the door creaked behind him. Svetlana stepped out, wrapping her arms around herself against the wind, her breath fogging in the porch light.

“You eaten anything yet?” she asked, voice carrying that same blunt edge she’d had since they met.

Shane shook his head without turning. “Not since breakfast. Probably should.”

“I bought food. Groceries, takeout containers, whatever looked edible. I don’t cook, so don’t expect miracles. But there’s enough for tonight.”

He finally glanced over. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She jerked her chin toward the door. “Come on, then. It’s getting colder out here.”

Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of reheated pasta and garlic bread. Svetlana had set out plates on the kitchen island, nothing fancy, just plastic forks, paper napkins, containers of fettuccine Alfredo and a side of roasted vegetables she must have grabbed from the market. They sat across from each other on the tall stools, the silence thick at first, only the scrape of forks and the low crackle of the fire breaking it. Shane ate mechanically, hunger finally catching up now that the adrenaline had drained away, but his mind stayed half in the bedroom with the steady beep of the portable monitor he’d hooked up to Ilya’s IV.

Svetlana spoke first, twirling pasta around her fork without looking up. “The redhead—Rose, right? She your girlfriend?”

Shane swallowed, set his fork down. “Ex. We’re still good friends.”

She nodded once, like she’d expected that answer. Another few bites went by before she tried again, casual but pointed. “And what’s the deal with you and Ilya?”

Shane’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, confusion creasing his brow. “He’s the one who came after me. Then keep showing up on my ER."

Svetlana gave a small, knowing huff. “I know him. He can chase, sure, he’s good at chasing when he wants something. But he doesn’t stick around, doesn’t risk his neck dragging someone into his shit unless they gave him room to do it. You gave him room, doctor. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

The words landed square in Shane’s chest. His first instinct was the old reflex answer "he’s straight" never been with a guy, this isn’t him, but it died before it reached his tongue. He couldn’t sell that lie to himself anymore, not after the way his body had reacted on that couch, not after the stupid, possessive burn he’d felt hearing “Sasha” slip from Ilya’s fevered lips. Interest was there, sharp and undeniable, the kind that made his pulse kick up just thinking about those blue eyes watching him, that crooked mouth curving into a smile meant only for him. He opened his mouth to argue, to say he hadn’t given any space, hadn’t invited any of this, but the denial tasted like ash. So he stayed quiet, pushed his plate away half-finished, and stood.

“I’m gonna check on him,” he said, voice low. “Excuse me.”

Svetlana didn’t argue, just watched him go with that same unreadable look.

A little while later she appeared in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame. Shane was sitting propped against the headboard, legs stretched out beside Ilya’s sleeping form, tablet balanced on his thighs while he scrolled through patient charts and made notes on follow-ups he’d missed. Reading glasses perched on his nose—he hated how they made him look like a professor, but they beat squinting at small print in dim light.

“I made up the other bedroom for you,” she said quietly.

Shane glanced up, then back at the screen. “Thanks. I’ll probably stay in here tonight, keep an eye on him. I’ll change the bag when it’s empty. If anything changes I’ll crash on the couch.”

She lingered a second longer, then turned to leave, muttering under her breath just loud enough for him to catch. " Ilya was the only one interested, my ass.”

Shane heard it, and a small, surprised laugh escaped before he could stop it. She was right. Painfully, embarrassingly right.

He stayed awake most of the night. The cottage settled into deep quiet, only the occasional pop from the dying fire and the soft hiss of the IV drip breaking the stillness. Shane kept the tablet glow low, cycling through lab results and consult notes, occasionally reaching over to feel Ilya’s forehead, cooler now, fever finally retreating, or adjust the blanket that kept slipping off his shoulder. The reading glasses slid down his nose every few minutes; he pushed them back up absently, too focused to care how tired he looked.

Sometime around three, Ilya stirred. His lashes fluttered, then opened slowly, bleary and unfocused. He blinked at the ceiling a couple times before his gaze drifted sideways and landed on Shane—glasses, tablet light catching the edges of his face, steady and watchful in the dark.

Ilya’s voice came out rough, cracked from disuse. “Did I die? Because if I did… this is heaven. You look way too good sitting there like that.”

Shane turned his head, one brow lifting behind the frames. “You’re already talking nonsense again. Must mean you’re feeling better.”

Ilya’s cracked lips curved. “Don’t know if I’m dreaming or not. Don’t care either way.”

“Stop it. Go back to sleep.”

Ilya shifted, wincing a little, but his gaze stayed glued to Shane. “You missed me, didn’t you? That’s why you came running back to check on your poor sick Russian.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I need you to quit almost dying so I don’t have to keep saving your ass. That’s all.”

“Wouldn’t have to almost die if you just came to see me sometimes,” Ilya murmured, voice dropping lower. “Came for a few kisses, maybe.”

Shane stared at him for a beat, then reached over and carefully slid his glasses off, setting them on the nightstand. Ilya made a small protesting noise.

“No, put them back.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Put the glasses back on.” Ilya’s hand found Shane’s hip under the covers, fingers curling loosely. “Want to look at you wearing them. Looks… nice.”

Shane hesitated, then slipped the frames back on, feeling ridiculous but oddly warm about it. Ilya hummed approval and turned onto his side, slow and careful because of the ribs. He pressed his nose against Shane’s waist, nuzzling under the hem of his shirt until cool air hit skin. The tip of his nose dragged along bare stomach, breathing him in deep, while one broad hand settled on Shane’s thigh and started a lazy, stroking rhythm, thumb sweeping back and forth, warm through the fabric.

“Stop that,” Shane said, voice tighter than he meant it to be. “Go back to sleep.”

“You smell so good,” Ilya mumbled against his skin, words muffled.

“If you don’t knock it off I’m switching places with Svetlana. She can babysit you.”

Total lie. The second the words left his mouth Shane felt a flare of irritation at the mental image—Svetlana curled up in this bed next to Ilya, close enough to hear him breathe, to feel him shift in his sleep. It twisted low in his gut, sharp and possessive, and he hated how easily it came.

Ilya let out a soft, sleepy chuckle, already drifting again. He pressed one last lazy kiss to the strip of skin he’d uncovered, then settled more comfortably against the pillows. “Better be you here when I wake up, Doc. No trading.”

Shane didn’t answer, just reached over to adjust the IV line one more time, making sure the drip was steady. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary on Ilya’s forearm, thumb brushing once over the inside of his wrist where the pulse beat slow and even now. He told himself it was just checking vitals. Nothing more. But he didn’t move away, didn’t slide down to the couch like he’d threatened. He stayed right there, back against the headboard, glasses still on, watching Ilya’s face slacken into real sleep while the night stretched on around them.

Chapter 9: Pretty Boy

Chapter Summary

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Ilya murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Good boy, just let go.”

The praise hit like a match to gasoline. Shane’s hips stuttered, chasing the friction, and Ilya sped up just enough, twisting on the downstroke, pressing his thumb hard against the sensitive spot under the head. Shane’s moans turned soft and desperate, muffled against Ilya’s shoulder as he tried to stay quiet. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in his belly, unbearable, perfect.

“Come for me,” Ilya ordered quietly, mouth against his temple. “Come on, Hollander. Give it to me."

Chapter Notes

Ilya woke up slowly, blinking against the soft gray-blue light sneaking in through the cracks in the shutters. His whole body still ached in that heavy, familiar way, ribs complaining every time he breathed, but the fever had finally backed off overnight. His head actually felt clear for the first time in days. He turned toward the pillow beside him, half expecting it to be empty, but there was Shane, slumped against the headboard in the most uncomfortable-looking position, like he’d been stubbornly fighting sleep for hours before he finally lost the battle and passed out right there. The doctor's legs were still stretched out, tablet forgotten on his lap. Those reading glasses sat crooked on his face, one earpiece slipping down, framing his features in a way that looked far from the sharp precision Ilya was used to seeing in the ER.

A quiet chuckle escaped Ilya's lips before he could stop it, low and rough. The sound barely stirred the air between them. He couldn’t help smiling, because even after Ilya had drifted off, Shane hadn’t taken the glasses off. Ilya had asked him to put them back on earlier, and the stubborn doctor had actually kept them on the whole damn night. 

He shifted carefully, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look, ignoring the twinge in his side. Shane didn't move, his breathing deep and even, mouth slightly parted. Ilya reached out, fingers light as a whisper, and eased the glasses off Shane's nose with the kind of gentleness he reserved for handling fragile things. He set them aside on the nightstand, then let his gaze linger, tracing the scatter of freckles across the bridge of Shane's nose and cheeks, faint constellations that stood out more in the pale light. God, he wanted to map them all, connect the dots with his fingertips until he knew every single one by heart, until he was sure no one else had ever bothered to notice them this way. Those long lashes fanned against his skin, dark against the fairness, and Ilya felt a pull in his chest, something insistent that made him want to lean in closer, breathe him in until the scent of clean soap and faint hospital antiseptic filled his lungs. 

Picking up people had always come easy to him, men, women, didn't matter much; a flash of that grin, a few well-placed words in his rough accent, and doors opened without much effort. He'd charm his way in, enjoy the night or the week, then slip out before things got messy, before anyone expected more than he could give. But Shane was a whole different game, this meticulous guy with his pressed scrubs and careful hands, always holding everything together like the world would fall apart if he let one thread unravel. Ilya craved cracking that shell, peeling back the layers until he uncovered a side of Shane that was messy and unguarded, a version that belonged to him alone, one that no one else got to see or touch.He’d already caught little flashes of it—that hungry look in Shane’s eyes during those quick stolen moments, the way his usual iron control started to crack whenever they got too close. But every single time, the doctor pulled himself back together, leaving Ilya chasing after something just out of reach, frustrated and completely hooked in a way that was starting to feel borderline obsessive. 

Still, even with that steady heat burning low in his veins, doubt kept slipping in like cold air through a cracked window, whispering about how high the stakes really were. He lifted a hand anyway, thumb brushing super lightly along Shane’s cheekbone, tracing the line down to his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble against his fingertip. The touch stirred up memories he'd buried deep—Sasha's face twisted in pain back in that freezing warehouse in Moscow, the way his brother's men had held Ilya down, forcing him to watch every blow, every crack of bone as Alexei raged about betrayal and weakness. Sasha had barely dragged himself out alive, bloodied and broken, and Ilya had sworn then, that he'd never drag another person into that kind of hell, never let his messed-up family stain someone else's life. But here he was, selfish as ever, tangled up with this doctor who had no business in his world, unable to cut the line and walk away. 

The idea of something happening to Shane, even of Alexei's shadow reaching him, leaving bruises or worse on that smooth skin, made Ilya's stomach twist into knots, his jaw clenching hard enough to ache. He couldn't picture it without rage boiling up, hot and violent, the thought of anyone else's hands marking what he already considered his driving him to the edge. No one got to touch Shane like that, no one but him. The possessiveness surged through him, wrapping tight around his chest, making it hard to breathe steady. He traced his finger lower, along the line of Shane's throat, feeling the slow pulse there, alive and strong under his touch. Walking away would fix everything, cut the danger off before it could turn into something that’d kill them both, but every time he tried to picture packing his shit and disappearing, leaving Shane to his quiet shifts and lonely apartment, it felt like tearing a chunk of himself out. He’d already lost too much—his mom, the one person who loved him hard and no-strings-attached, ripped away way too early by the same ugly world that raised him. That empty spot she left still hurt like hell. Letting someone in, actually liking them, always came with that same dark shadow now: the trauma of seeing love get stomped flat. Almost losing Sasha to the violence, then really losing her in ways that still jerked him awake in cold sweats. He clenched his jaw at the memory, his finger freezing on Shane’s collarbone, pressing down a little harder like he could hold onto the warmth there and make the ghosts shut up. No. He couldn’t walk away, the only way through this was to face it straight on, deal with Alexei for good, clear the road so he could finally show his stubborn doctor that staying was worth all the mess, that he could keep him safe, keep him his.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered, testing the name soft in the quiet room, his accent curling around it like smoke. 

Shane stirred at the sound, brows furrowing in sleep, but didn't wake, just shifted a fraction closer, his hand brushing Ilya's arm in a way that sent a quiet spark through him. Ilya watched, breath held, as Shane settled again, the lines of tension easing from his face. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Ilya murmured, leaning in until his lips ghosted over Shane's temple. The door creaked open down the hall, Svetlana's footsteps padding soft on the wood floor, probably checking in, but Ilya didn't pull away, didn't care if she saw. This moment was his, and he wasn't letting go. 

“Lana,” he called low, not turning his head. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with a raised brow but no surprise. “You're up early. Feeling better?” 

“Better than yesterday. Thanks to him.” His finger traced lazy circles on Shane's shoulder now, possessive even in the lightness of it.

She snorted quietly. “Don't wake him. He was up most of the night fussing over you like a hen.”

Ilya grinned, crooked and slow. “I like when he fusses. Means he cares.” 

“Careful with that,” she warned, voice dropping. “Alexei's not done hunting. You drag him deeper, it could end bad for all of us.” The words hit like a splash of cold water, but Ilya only tightened his hold, pulling the blanket higher over Shane's form.

“I know. But I'm not letting him go.” Svetlana sighed, shaking her head as she backed out. 

“Your funeral, Roz. Just make sure it's not his too.” 

Ilya stayed propped on his elbow, content to watch the slow rhythm of Shane’s breathing for what felt like forever, the room quiet except for the occasional creak of the old house settling. Shane’s face had softened completely in sleep, all the usual guarded lines smoothed away, and Ilya couldn’t stop running his thumb over the edge of Shane’s jaw every few minutes, like he needed the reminder that this was real, that the doctor hadn’t vanished the second his eyes closed. 

Eventually Shane woke up, lashes fluttering, a small confused frown pulling between his brows before he even opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, then registered Ilya staring at him from inches away. “What time is it?” Shane’s voice came out thick and gravelly, still heavy with sleep.

Ilya glanced toward the window, where the light was still pale and thin. “Early. Not even eight yet. You’ve got time.”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face, then noticed his glasses weren’t on his face at all. He patted the nightstand until his fingers found them and slid them back on, looking mildly embarrassed.

“You were snoring a little,” Ilya said, grin sliding wide and unrepentant. “Tiny ones. Cute.” 

“I do not snore.” Shane shot him a flat look, already sitting up straighter, reaching for the tablet that had slipped halfway off his thigh. “And you should’ve been sleeping, not lying there staring at me like some kind of creep.” 

Ilya laughed under his breath, low and warm. “Can’t help it. The view’s too good. I like you like this. no scrubs, hair all messed up, no pretending you’ve got everything under control. Makes me wanna keep you right here.” 

Shane huffed, but the tips of his ears went faintly pink as he tried to smooth his hair down with one hand. He cleared his throat, shifting into doctor mode like flipping a switch. “How are you feeling? Any pain? Fever still down?” 

“Fever’s gone. Mostly.” Ilya stretched carefully, testing his ribs. “Body hurts less. You’ve got magic hands, doc. I’m more curious how long it’s been since you actually slept. You passed out hard. Like, dead-to-the-world hard.” 

Shane’s expression flickered, he looked down at the tablet like it might save him. “I was just… keeping an eye on your vitals. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. It wasn’t planned.” 

“Uh-huh.” Ilya’s voice dropped, teasing but soft. “You were worried. Admit it.” 

Shane didn’t answer right away. Instead he set the tablet aside, finally meeting Ilya’s gaze. Something shifted in the air between them, quieter now, heavier. Shane had stopped fighting the pull weeks ago; every time he told himself he should draw the line, push Ilya away for both their sakes, the want drowned it out. He wanted this, wanted Ilya’s mouth on his, wanted the heat and the mess and the way Ilya looked at him. There was no point pretending anymore. 

Ilya read it on his face. He leaned in slow, giving Shane every chance to pull back, and when he didn’t, Ilya cupped the side of Shane’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He pressed the lightest, quickest kiss to Shane’s lips, just a brush, just testing, then went back for more, deeper this time, slow and deliberate. Shane made a small sound in the back of his throat and slid his hand around the nape of Ilya’s neck, tugging him closer. 

Ilya laughed against his mouth, a rough, pleased sound, even as his ribs protested the movement. “Ow—fuck, easy,” Ilya muttered, half-laughing. 

“Sorry.” Shane jerked back immediately, eyes wide with guilt. “Shit, I forgot—” 

“No.” Ilya caught his wrist before he could retreat too far, pulling him right back in until their foreheads touched. “Don’t you dare stop now.” 

Their mouths were barely an inch apart again, breaths mingling, when three sharp knocks cracked against the door. They froze. Svetlana’s voice came through the wood.

“Breakfast is ready whenever you two decide to stop making out long enough to eat.” Ilya let his head drop forward until his forehead rested fully against Shane’s, a low, frustrated string of Russian curses spilling out under his breath. “Timing, Lana,” he called back, voice rough. “Always fucking perfect.”

Shane let out a shaky exhale that was almost a laugh, cheeks flushed, and pressed one last quick kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth before easing back. “We should… probably go eat.” 

Ilya groaned, flopping dramatically onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “Five more minutes. Ten. I’ll pay her to fuck off for ten."

Shane swung his legs over the side of the bed, still fighting the flush creeping up his neck from that interrupted kiss,  while Ilya watched with that lazy, satisfied grin that always made him feel exposed in a way he wasn't used to. Ilya moved slower, easing himself upright with a hand pressed to his side, but he didn't complain, just stood and slipped an arm around Shane's waist as they headed for the door, his fingers splaying warm and possessive against the small of Shane's back. The hallway smelled of fresh coffee and something savory frying, probably bacon or sausages, the kind of homey scent that clashed with the tangled mess in Shane's head about how deep he was getting into this whole situation. They shuffled toward the kitchen, Ilya's touch guiding him lightly, and for a second Shane let himself lean into it, the contact grounding against the lingering haze of sleep.

But as they rounded the corner into the bright kitchen, sunlight streaming through the window over the sink, Shane froze mid-step. There, at the wooden table cluttered with plates and mugs, sat Svetlana across from Rose Landry, both of them digging into stacks of pancakes like old friends catching up. Rose looked up first, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, fork paused halfway to her mouth, and her face lit up with that easy, genuine smile she always had. Svetlana was leaning back in her chair, sipping coffee, her sharp eyes flicking over to them with amusement. Shane's stomach dropped, a cold wave of panic hitting him as he registered Rose here, in this space that felt too private, too tangled with secrets he wasn't ready to share. He stepped sideways automatically, pulling away from Ilya's hand on his back, the sudden distance feeling awkward and telling, but he couldn't help it, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios about what had been said before they walked in.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Shane blurted, his voice coming out sharper than he meant, confusion and alarm twisting together as he stared at Rose, then glanced at Svetlana, trying to read her expression for any hint of betrayal.

Svetlana set her mug down with a soft clink, her lips curving into a smirk. "She called your phone. You left it buzzing on the counter last night, so I picked up. Figured it might be important. Then I invited her over for breakfast, we are all friends now!"

Rose nodded, still smiling that innocent, unbothered smile, wiping a bit of syrup from her lip with a napkin. "I was worried when you didn't answer my texts yesterday. Just wanted to check if you were okay. But Svetlana filled me in on everything."

Shane's heart hammered harder, the panic spiking inside him like a bad adrenaline rush in the OR, his brain screaming that this was it, that Svetlana had spilled it all and now Rose knew about the kisses, the late nights, the way he'd been sneaking around like some guilty teenager. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "What exactly did she tell you?"

"That Ilya got hit with a bad fever or something and you came over help" Rose said casually, spearing another bite of pancake. "Sounds like you saved the day. Hero mode, even on your days off."

Shane exhaled a little, the relief mixing with the lingering dread, but it didn't fully settle the knot in his gut, he still wasn't sure how much Svetlana had implied, if Rose was reading between the lines or if he was just paranoid. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Ilya who was hovering nearby with a raised eyebrow, clearly entertained by the whole thing. "Rose, can we step outside for a minute? Just to talk."

Svetlana let out a short laugh, waving a hand dismissively as she pushed a couple of empty plates toward the center of the table. "Talk later. Food's getting cold. Sit down and eat first."

Ilya shrugged and pulled out a chair for Shane, his hand brushing Shane's arm in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring, then dropped into the seat next to him, piling food onto his plate without a word. Shane sank down reluctantly, his appetite gone, but he forced himself to fork up some eggs and bacon, the silence settling over the table like a blanket, thick and a bit uncomfortable, only punctuated by the clink of utensils and the occasional sip of coffee. He kept his eyes on his plate, mind spinning, wondering how to navigate this without everything blowing up.

"So, Rose," Svetlana said after a moment, breaking the quiet as she leaned forward, her tone curious and probing. "What do you do for work?"

Rose brightened, setting her fork down for a second. "I'm the social media manager for the local hockey team. Handle all their online stuff like posts, fan interactions, that kind of thing. Keeps me on my toes with the players' schedules and all the drama that comes with it."

Svetlana nodded, pouring herself more coffee. "Hockey players? Must be fun. You got a boyfriend keeping you company, or are you flying solo?"

"Nah, single right now," Rose replied easily, no hesitation, just a shrug and a sip from her mug. "Focusing on work mostly. The job's demanding, but I love it."

"And food-wise? What's your go-to comfort meal after a long day?" Svetlana pressed, her questions coming steady, like she was genuinely interested, not just filling air.

Shane watched the exchange, chewing slowly, a quiet amazement building as Rose answered each one without missing a beat, her responses open and relaxed, like this random breakfast interrogation was the most normal thing ever. 

"Poutine, hands down. Extra cheese curds. Can't beat it when you're wiped out."

Svetlana chuckled, glancing at Ilya who was smirking into his food, and kept going. "Poutine? Solid choice. Ever try making it with some Russian twists, like adding smoked meat or something?"

Rose tilted her head, thinking. "Not yet, but that sounds amazing. I'd be down to experiment."

The conversation at the table drifted on easily after that, Svetlana steering it with her usual blunt curiosity while Rose matched her energy without ever seeming overwhelmed, laughing at the right moments and tossing back questions of her own about Svetlana’s life in Montreal, the cold winters, the food she missed from back home. Shane mostly stayed quiet, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate, the knot in his chest loosening only a fraction with every casual answer Rose gave. Ilya kept one knee pressed lightly against his under the table, a steady, wordless reminder that he wasn’t alone in this weird morning, but Shane still felt like he was balancing on the edge of something fragile and about to crack wide open.

When the plates were finally cleared and the coffee pot ran dry, Shane excused himself without looking at anyone in particular. He slipped out through the sliding door onto the narrow back porch, the cold bite hitting him immediately, sharp enough to clear some of the fog in his head. He sank onto the top step, elbows on his knees, staring out at the small fenced yard where frost still clung to the grass in thin silver patches. 

He didn’t hear the door open behind him at first, just caught the faint drift of something sweet, vanilla and a hint of citrus, the same perfume Rose had worn since college. Footsteps paused, then she settled beside him on the step, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed but not quite. Neither of them spoke for a long minute, the silence comfortable in the way only old familiarity could make it.

Shane rubbed his palms together, the cold seeping through his thin shirt making his fingers ache. “You probably noticed something,” he started, voice low and rough, like the words had been stuck behind his teeth for years. “Back there. With… everything.”

Rose didn’t interrupt, just waited, her breath visible in small clouds.

“I don’t even know how to explain it,” he went on, staring hard at the frost instead of her face. “I’ve always felt… something. Different. But I locked it down so tight I convinced myself it wasn’t real. Everyone expected the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect doctor. Girlfriend, marriage someday, the whole checklist. I thought if I just followed the script long enough it would start feeling right. It never did.” He swallowed, throat tight. “And now there’s Ilya, and I’m… I don’t know. Confused as hell. Scared. Embarrassed, mostly, because you’re sitting right here and you’re my ex and I’m saying this out loud for the first time in my life and I have no idea what you’re going to think of me.”

He risked a glance at her then, bracing for pity or disappointment or worse, but Rose’s expression was soft, eyes steady and kind in that quiet way she’d always had when someone needed her to listen.

“I noticed,” she said simply. “The first time I saw you look at him in the apartament. The way your whole face changed for half a second when he smiled at you. You never looked at me like that, Shane.”

He flinched, the words landing gentle but accurate. “I loved you. I really did. I still do, in a different way.”

She laughed under her breath, small and warm. “I know you did. And I loved you back. But it was never that spark, was it? The one that makes everything else disappear for a minute.”

Shane pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a second, trying to push back the sudden sting there. “I don’t even know what I feel exactly. It’s all mess up. He’s trouble, like big, dangerous trouble and I keep telling myself I should run the other way. But every time I try, I end up right back here, and that freaks me out because what if I’m wrong? What if I ruin everything I’ve built just to chase something that burns out?”

Rose shifted closer then, resting her shoulder against his, solid and steady. “You’re not ruining anything by being honest with yourself. For once. You’ve spent so long being careful, being perfect, that you forgot you’re allowed to want things that don’t fit the plan. And yeah, it’s scary. Coming out—even just to one person—is huge. But you’re doing it. Right now. With me. That counts.”

He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “I feel like an idiot. Like I should’ve figured this out years ago.”

“You figured it out when you were ready,” she said quietly. “And I’m glad it was with someone who looks at you like you hung the damn moon. Even if he’s a walking red flag.”

Shane huffed, the sound raw. “He really is.”

They sat in silence again after that, the cold settling deeper into his bones but not feeling quite so heavy anymore. Inside the house he could hear the low murmur of voices,  Svetlana and Ilya, probably cleaning up or arguing and for the first time in a long time the thought of going back in didn’t feel like stepping into a trap. It felt like stepping toward something, messy and uncertain and real.

Rose bumped his shoulder lightly. “You gonna be okay?”

He nodded slowly, the motion small but sure. “I think so. Eventually.”

“Good.” She stood, brushing frost off the seat of her jeans. “Come back inside when you’re ready.”

Shane managed a crooked smile. “Thanks, Rose. For… everything.”

“Anytime,” she said, and meant it, then slipped back through the door, leaving him alone with the quiet yard and the slow, steady thaw happening somewhere deep in his chest.

The door clicked shut behind Rose, leaving the porschsuddenly too quiet, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel amplified: the distant forest, the faint birds, Shane’s own uneven breathing. He stayed seated for another beat, hands clasped between his knees, trying to let the conversation with her settle somewhere solid inside him instead of rattling around like loose change. Then he felt the shift in the air, the warmth of another body close behind him before he even heard the footsteps.

Lips brushed the nape of his neck, soft at first, then firmer, a slow open-mouthed kiss that sent a shiver racing straight down his spine. Shane’s shoulders jerked involuntarily.

“Stop that,” he muttered.

Ilya paused but didn’t pull away, just hummed low against his skin. “Why?”

Shane swallowed, glancing toward the glass door where he could still see the faint outline of movement inside. “Rose is right there.”

Ilya’s teeth grazed the shell of Shane’s ear, the lightest nip, barely there. “So?”

“She’s my ex,” Shane said, the words coming out sharper, almost defensive. “It’s… weird.”

Ilya finally eased back, circling around to drop into the wicker chair facing him, legs sprawled wide, elbows on his knees. He studied Shane with that lazy, predatory amusement that always made Shane feel pinned in place. “Svetlana’s my ex too.”

The words landed like a slap of cold air. Shane’s jaw tightened, a flash of something hot and ugly twisting in his gut, possessive, irrational, the exact opposite of the calm he usually wore like armor. He didn’t like picturing Ilya with anyone, period, let alone someone who still moved through his house like she belonged there. His face must have given him away because Ilya’s mouth curved into a slow, delighted grin.

“What?” Ilya teased, leaning forward. “Is the good doctor jealous?”

Shane glared. “You’re an idiot.”

Ilya laughed, low and warm, the sound curling around Shane like smoke. He pushed to his feet, stretching carefully so he didn’t pull at his ribs, then paused right beside Shane’s shoulder. He bent low, voice dropping to a rough whisper meant for no one else. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Waiting. Time to change the bandage, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just brushed past, leaving the faint scent of clean sweat and whatever cheap soap he’d used lingering in the air.

Shane sat there another few minutes, staring at the frost-tipped grass, pulse thudding too loud in his ears. Eventually he stood, brushed the cold off his jeans, and slipped back inside. The living room was warmer, the low murmur of voices drawing him in. Svetlana and Rose were on the couch now, knees almost touching, heads bent close over something on Rose’s phone. Rose’s cheeks were pink, her laugh a little embarrassed as Svetlana gestured animatedly, clearly in the middle of some story that had Rose squirming.

Shane cleared his throat, not quite looking at either of them. “I’m just gonna… change Ilya’s bandage. In the room.”

Neither woman answered right away; Svetlana just flicked him a knowing glance while Rose offered a quick, sympathetic nod before ducking her head again, still flushed.

Shane walked down the hallway faster than necessary, heart kicking harder with every step. The bedroom door was cracked. He pushed it open and barely had time to register Ilya standing there, before strong hands caught him by the waist and yanked him inside. The door shut with a soft thud. In the next breath Shane’s back hit the wall, Ilya crowding in close, mouth crashing down on his.

The kiss was hungry, messy.  Shane gasped into it and—for the first time—didn’t hold anything back. Whatever dam had cracked open during that talk with Rose was wide open now; he surged forward, fingers sinking into Ilya’s thick curls, tugging hard enough to make the bigger man groan. He kissed like he was starving, like the air in his lungs belonged to Ilya and he needed it back. Their bodies pressed tight, chest to chest, the solid heat of Ilya’s frame grounding him even as it set every nerve alight. Shane made a small, helpless sound, half moan, half plea, and Ilya swallowed it down, devouring the noise like it was fuel.

Ilya broke the kiss first, dragging his mouth along Shane’s jaw, down the column of his throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin over his Adam’s apple. Shane tipped his head back against the wall, breath ragged, hands still fisted in those curls.

“Seeing you out there with her,” Ilya murmured against his ear, voice gravel-rough, accent thicker with want, “talking, laughing, close like that. Made me want to drag you away. Keep you where no one else gets to touch.”

Shane shivered, the confession hitting low and hot. “I was telling her. About us.”

Ilya stilled for half a second, then bit down lightly on the lobe of Shane’s ear, tugging. “What did you tell her, doctor?”

Shane’s laugh came out shaky, breathless. “That I’m… figuring it out. That I can’t stay away even when I know I should.”

Ilya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, something fierce and tender flashing there at once. His thumbs stroked slow circles over Shane’s hipbones where his shirt had ridden up, possessive without hurry. “Good,” he said quietly, like the word held more weight than it should. “Because I’m done pretending I can let you go.”

Ilya didn’t rush. He kept Shane pinned there against the wall with the solid weight of his body, one thick thigh sliding between Shane’s legs to press just enough to make thinking feel distant and secondary. His mouth came back to Shane’s slower this time, tongue sweeping in deep and lazy like he had all the time in the world to taste every corner. Shane’s hands stayed tangled in those curls, pulling harder, and Ilya answered by tilting his head to change the angle, kissing him open-mouthed and filthy until Shane’s knees threatened to give out. The control was all Ilya’s now, the way he held Shane’s jaw with one big hand, thumb pressing along the hinge so Shane’s mouth stayed exactly where he wanted it. And God, it felt good—better than good. Shane’s mind spun with the sudden, dizzying relief of not having to decide anything, not having to be the one in charge for once. How the hell had he gone years, without knowing how sweet it could be to just let go, to let someone else lead, to feel the world narrow down to the heat of a body and the rhythm someone else set? His whole life had been careful steps, measured decisions, every move calculated to keep things neat and safe, and now he was melting against rough plaster because a scarred-up Russian runaway decided to take the reins. It was terrifying and perfect and he never wanted it to stop.

Ilya broke away just long enough to drag his lips along Shane’s cheek, voice low and gravelly against his ear. “Tell me you want this, Doc. Say yes.”

Shane’s breath hitched, eyes half-lidded, already too far gone to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” he managed, the word coming out wrecked and needy. “Fuck, yes.”

That was all Ilya needed. His free hand slid down Shane’s stomach, skilled fingers popping the button of his jeans and slipping inside without hesitation. He wrapped around Shane’s cock, slow and firm, stroking once from base to tip with a twist at the head that made Shane’s hips jerk forward into the touch. Shane cursed under his breath, sharp and surprised.

“Fucking hell, I—”

Ilya’s grip tightened, not painful but insistent, cutting the complaint off into a low, broken moan that Shane couldn’t swallow back. He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear. “Shh. Quiet, pretty boy. Don’t want your sweet ex-girlfriend hearing how good you sound when you fall apart.”

The words landed hot and possessive, and Shane’s head thumped back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as Ilya set a steady, unhurried rhythm. Every slide of that rough palm felt electric, building pressure low in his gut faster than he could process. Ilya’s other hand stayed at his jaw, keeping his face tilted up so he could watch every flicker of expression, every hitch of breath. Shane was leaking now, slicking the way, and Ilya used it, thumb circling the head on every upstroke until Shane’s thighs trembled and his fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders like they were the only thing keeping him upright. He felt exposed, completely at the mercy of the man in front of him, and instead of panic all he could think was how right it felt, how much he’d been starving for exactly this, for someone strong enough to hold him down and gentle enough not to break him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Ilya murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Good boy, just let go.”

The praise hit like a match to gasoline. Shane’s hips stuttered, chasing the friction, and Ilya sped up just enough, twisting on the downstroke, pressing his thumb hard against the sensitive spot under the head. Shane’s moans turned soft and desperate, muffled against Ilya’s shoulder as he tried to stay quiet. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in his belly, unbearable, perfect.

“Come for me,” Ilya ordered quietly, mouth against his temple. “Come on, Hollander. Give it to me."

The command tipped him over. Shane’s back arched off the wall, a strangled noise catching in his throat as heat surged through him, spilling hot and messy over Ilya’s fingers in pulsing waves. His vision blurred at the edges, legs threatening to give out entirely, but Ilya held him steady, stroking him through it until every last tremor faded, until Shane was slumped boneless against him, forehead pressed to the crook of Ilya’s neck, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

Ilya didn’t pull away right away. He kept his hand where it was, loose now, gentle, pressing lazy kisses along Shane’s temple while Shane tried to remember how lungs were supposed to work.  Neither of them spoke for a long minute, just the sound of their breathing slowly evening out, the distant murmur of voices from the living room reminding them the world hadn’t stopped existing outside this bedroom door.

Ilya finally eased his hand free, wiping it on the edge of Shane’s rumpled shirt without any ceremony, then wrapped both arms around him properly, pulling Shane flush against his chest. Shane stayed there, face buried in the crook of Ilya’s neck, inhaling the warm, familiar mix of skin and faint soap while his heartbeat gradually stopped trying to punch through his ribs. His legs still felt unreliable, like they might fold if he tried to move too fast, but Ilya held him up without effort, one hand splayed wide across the small of his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck in a way that felt more protective than possessive now. Ilya pressed a soft, open kiss to whatever part of Shane he could reach, his temple, the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw.

After what felt like forever but was probably only a couple of minutes, Ilya shifted just enough to tip Shane’s chin up with two fingers. Their eyes met, and for once Ilya didn’t smirk or tease; his expression was quiet, almost careful, blue eyes searching Shane’s face like he was checking for cracks.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

Shane managed a small, shaky nod, the word slipping out soft and low, almost lost against the warm skin of Ilya’s throat. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

His hand found Ilya’s waist on instinct, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt, grounding himself in the solid heat there. He tilted his head back just enough to meet those pale blue eyes again, searching for any sign of pain or strain. “How are you feeling? Ribs still okay? Fever gone for good?”

Ilya’s mouth curved, not quite a smirk this time, something softer edging in around the corners. “Better. A lot better. You’re a damn good doctor, Hollander.”

Shane let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh, the sound catching in his chest. He dropped his gaze to where his thumb was tracing absent circles over Ilya’s hip. “Good doctors don’t get involved with their patients. That’s kind of… the first thing they drill into you.”

Ilya studied him for a beat, catching the thread of real guilt woven through the words. He lifted a hand to cup the side of Shane’s face, thumb brushing slow along his cheekbone. “Hey. If you need to blame someone for this mess, blame me. I’m the one who showed up bleeding in your ER, remember? I’m the one who kept coming back. You just tried to keep me alive. The rest… that’s on me.”

Shane exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction at the gentle certainty in Ilya’s voice. He didn’t argue, didn’t have the energy to, but the words settled somewhere deep, easing the sharpest edges of the shame that had started creeping back in. After another quiet moment he eased himself out of Ilya’s hold, legs steadier now but still feeling like they belonged to someone else. “I need to clean up,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the attached bathroom. “Give me a minute.”

Ilya let him go without protest, just watched with that steady, unhurried gaze as Shane crossed the room. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and the sudden privacy hit like a wave—cool tile under his bare feet, the faint hum of the overhead fan. He braced his hands on the sink and stared at his own reflection: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair a disaster from Ilya’s fingers, eyes too bright and unguarded. He looked wrecked in the best way, like someone who’d finally let the leash slip, and the sight of it made his stomach flip with equal parts thrill and terror.

He turned on the tap, splashed cold water over his face until the heat in his skin dulled to something manageable, then grabbed a clean washcloth from the stack on the shelf. The quiet stretched, broken only by the drip of the faucet and the muffled sound of laughter drifting down the hallway, Rose and Svetlana still talking, oblivious. Shane cleaned himself up methodically, the motions familiar and grounding, wiping away the evidence of what they’d just done while his mind kept replaying fragments: the weight of Ilya’s thigh between his, the rough praise murmured against his ear, the way giving up control had felt like finally breathing after holding his breath for years.

When he stepped back into the bedroom a few minutes later, jeans zipped and shirt straightened as best he could manage, Ilya was sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, watching the door like he’d been waiting exactly that long and not a second more. He’d pulled a fresh t-shirt on, the fabric clinging a little to the still-damp skin of his shoulders, and the sight of him relaxed made something warm and unsteady bloom low in Shane’s chest again.

Ilya tilted his head, taking in whatever expression was on Shane’s face. “You good?”

Shane crossed the room in a few steps and dropped onto the mattress beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together. He didn’t answer right away, just leaned his shoulder against Ilya’s, letting the contact steady him. 

Shane had barely settled his weight more comfortably against Ilya’s side when the first distant sound of laughter filtered down the hallway—bright, a little too loud, and unmistakably Rose. Her voice carried his name in a singsong way that made his stomach twist with instant concern. “Shaaane! Shane, where are you hiding?”

She giggled again, the sound bubbling over like she’d forgotten how volume control worked, and then footsteps approached the bedroom door. It swung open without a knock, and there she was, swaying in the doorway with Svetlana right behind her, one arm looped firmly around Rose’s waist to keep her upright. Rose’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink, eyes glassy and sparkling with the kind of reckless joy that only came from too much alcohol too fast. Svetlana looked equal parts amused and resigned, like she’d tried to slow things down and failed spectacularly.

Rose spotted Shane and lit up even brighter, stumbling forward a step before Svetlana caught her again. “There you are! We were looking for you. We should hang out with Russians more. They’re so fun.”

Shane was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room in quick strides, worry sharpening his voice. “Rose, how much did you drink? You’re hammered.”

Svetlana shrugged one shoulder, still holding Rose steady. “She wanted to try real Russian vodka. We played a little game. She lost. Like a lot.”

Rose burst into another fit of giggles and promptly lost her balance, tipping forward straight into Shane. Her arms flew around his neck in a clumsy hug, and he caught her automatically, hands settling at her waist to keep her from sliding to the floor. She smelled strongly of sharp vodka and the sweet vanilla of her perfume, the combination making Shane’s nose wrinkle even as he tried to steady her.

“You’re so pretty,” Rose mumbled, one hand coming up to pat clumsily at his cheek, fingers tracing his jaw like she was mapping it for the first time. “God, Shane, you’re so beautiful. I could just kiss you right now. Like, right here.”

Ilya moved before Shane could even process the words, stepping in smooth and close, his presence suddenly filling the space between them. “Okay, everybody sit,” he said, voice calm but carrying that low edge of command that didn’t invite argument. He guided Rose gently but firmly out of Shane’s arms and toward the bed, easing her down onto the edge of the mattress. “No more standing for you.”

Rose blinked up at him, then turned her head toward Svetlana, trying—and failing—for a whisper. “He’s jealous,” she stage-whispered, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Your boyfriend’s jealous. That’s cute.”

She dissolved into laughter again, the sound bright and unstoppable, and then threw herself sideways into Svetlana’s arms when the other woman stepped closer. Svetlana caught her without missing a beat, steadying her as Rose buried her face against Svetlana’s shoulder.

“You’re so pretty too,” Rose said, voice muffled against fabric now, one hand sliding up to tangle gently in Svetlana’s dark curls. She tugged lightly, then leaned back just enough to look at her properly. “Like, seriously beautiful. And you smell amazing. How do you smell so good? It’s not fair.”

Svetlana laughed, soft and indulgent, brushing a stray strand of hair off Rose’s forehead. “It’s called soap, sweetheart. And maybe a little perfume. You’re drunk.”

“Only a little,” Rose protested, but she was already melting against Svetlana again, arms looping loosely around her waist like she’d found the most comfortable place in the world. “You’re both so nice. Shane’s nice too. He’s the nicest. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Shane stood frozen a few feet away, hands still half-raised from where he’d been holding her, caught somewhere between amusement, concern, and the faint awkward heat of having his ex-girlfriend drunk and affectionate in front of the man he’d just come undone for. Ilya’s hand settled low on his back, a quiet anchor, thumb moving in slow circles that said stay calm without needing words.

Rose lifted her head again, blinking slowly at Svetlana like she was seeing her for the first time. “Can we keep you? Like, forever? You make good drinks and you’re soft and you smell like heaven.”

Svetlana snorted, guiding Rose to lie back properly on the bed now, propping a pillow under her head. “We’ll talk about forever when you’re sober. For now, you’re staying right here until the room stops spinning.”

Rose sighed happily, already half-drifting, one hand still loosely curled in Svetlana’s shirt. “Okay. But you gonna stay too. Promise?”

Svetlana glanced over at Shane and Ilya, eyebrows raised in silent question, but her smile was fond. “Promise. Now close your eyes, troublemaker.”

Chapter End Notes

Hey everyone!
This chapter came out way faster than usual because I literally couldn’t stop writing once I started. This was honestly one of the most fun chapters I’ve ever written. I was smiling the whole time. I really hope you guys love it as much as I did! Let me know what you think! 🫶

Chapter 10: Unanswered

Chapter Summary

“Don’t even think about doing something stupid,” Shane said before Ilya could get a word out. “You’ll rip those stitches open and I’m not coming back to fix them.”

Ilya exhaled, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “I need to see you.”

“No.”

“I’m serious, Doc. One hour. I’ll be there.”

“I’m not home,” Shane said flatly. “I’m at a friend’s place.”

Ilya’s grip tightened on the phone. “Fine. I’ll swing by Pike’s and grab you.”

“It’s not Pike.”

Svetlana had finally gotten Rose settled in the room, murmuring something low and soothing in Russian as she tugged the blankets up and shut the door with a soft click. She'd looked at Ilya and Shane, one eyebrow raised like she was daring them to argue.

"I'm staying with her," she'd said, voice flat but firm. "You two can take the room I'm using."

Shane didn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them into his pockets and stared at the floorboards like they might give him an answer. Ilya moved first, dropping onto the long leather sofa with a tired exhale, stretching out his long legs and patting the cushion next to him.

"Come here, Doc," he said, voice low, almost gentle. The nickname landed softer, no tease behind it this time.

Shane took one step forward, then stopped when a phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was Ilya's, screen lighting up with an incoming call. Shane's eyes flicked to it automatically and the name stared back at him: Sasha.

His stomach did a slow, unpleasant twist. He picked up the phone without thinking, holding it out like it burned.

"Here," he muttered, avoiding Ilya's gaze. "Sorry. Didn't mean to look."

Ilya took it, expression unreadable, and answered on the second ring. He switched to Russian immediately, the words fast as he pushed off the sofa and walked out to the back porch. The glass door slid shut behind him with a quiet thud.

Shane sank down onto the sofa where Ilya had been, the leather still warm from his body. Through the wide windows he could see Ilya pacing out there, phone pressed to his ear, free hand gesturing sharply. The wind ruffled his light curls, and every few steps he'd rake fingers through them like he was trying to pull the conversation out of his head. Shane watched, arms crossed tight over his chest, that stupid, familiar burn starting up again in his gut. Jealousy.

He hated how small it made him feel.

A few minutes later the door slid open again. Ilya stepped back inside, pocketing the phone, and dropped down right next to Shane, close enough that their thighs brushed. He didn't say anything about the call. Instead he leaned in, lips grazing the side of Shane's neck in a slow, calm kiss.

Shane's breath hitched. He shifted away half an inch. "I should probably check on Rose—"

"She's fine," Ilya murmured against his skin. "Lana's got her."

Another kiss, lower this time, right where neck met shoulder. Shane felt the heat of it all the way down his spine.

"I need to get my stuff together," Shane said, voice tight. "Drive her home. She's gonna be hungover as hell tomorrow."

Ilya slid an arm around Shane's waist from behind, pulling him back against his chest. His mouth found the nape of Shane's neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses there, warm and unhurried.

"Lana is taking care of Rose," Ilya said softly. "You could take care of me instead."

Shane's heart hammered. He tried to focus on the practical—keys, coat, the long drive back to the city—but Ilya's hands were steady, one splayed across his stomach, the other resting low on his hip. Another kiss, then a whisper right against his ear.

"You drive me fucking crazy, Doc. All I can think about is how much I want to be inside you."

Shane jerked away so fast he nearly stumbled off the couch. He stood there breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides.

"I—" He swallowed. "I can't. Not right now."

Ilya didn't move to follow. He just watched him, blue eyes careful, waiting.

Shane dragged a hand through his hair. "I've never... with a guy. I mean in this way and I'm not—" He broke off, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. "I'm not ready for that. Not here. Not like this."

The words hung between them, clumsy and honest.

Ilya nodded once, slow. "Okay."

Shane blinked. "Okay?"

"I won't do anything you don't want." Ilya's voice was steady, no frustration, no push. "Nothing at all. Not until you say yes. And even then, only what you want."

Shane let out a shaky breath. The room felt too small suddenly, the air too thick.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just... need a minute."

He turned and walked down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He leaned against the sink, staring at his own reflection—tired eyes, flushed cheeks, hair a mess from Ilya's fingers earlier. His pulse still raced, but the panic had dulled to something quieter, more manageable.

Shane stayed in the bathroom, probably close to half an hour, just staring at the tiled wall while his brain spun worst-case scenarios on a loop. What if his parents decided to drop by unannounced the way they sometimes did when they were “worried” about him working too much? What if they walked in and saw Ilya sprawled on the couch like he belonged there? And what the hell was Ilya even expecting from him now? Shane wasn’t naive; he knew the mechanics of sex between two men, had watched enough porn in the dark after that first real kiss with Ilya to feel the curiosity burn straight through shame. He’d clicked away quickly every time, heart pounding, telling himself it was just research, just trying to understand what his body kept responding to. But knowing and doing were two different things, and right now the gap between them felt like a canyon he wasn’t ready to cross. Not with Rose passed out down the hall, not with Svetlana in the house, not while Ilya was still healing. The thought of anything happening here, in this space, made his stomach knot tighter. He splashed cold water on his face, dried it with a towel that smelled faintly of pine, and decided: nothing. Not today. Maybe not ever if he could talk himself out of it.

When he finally pushed the door open, the low murmur of voices stopped him. Ilya and Svetlana were in the living room again, speaking English this time, their tones clipped and practical.

“…new place is ready,” Ilya was saying, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “Furniture’s already there. We can move in tomorrow night if we want.”

Svetlana crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You always do this. Drop everything the second Sasha calls crying about something.”

Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but the bathroom door creaked wider and both of them glanced over. He switched to Russian mid-sentence, voice dropping lower, something decisive in the quick string of words Shane couldn’t catch. Svetlana’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue back.

Ilya straightened when Shane stepped fully into the room. “You okay?”

Shane nodded once, shoving his hands into his pockets again so no one would see them shake. “Yeah. Fine.”

He looked past Ilya to Svetlana. “How’s Rose?”

“Still out,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “Snoring like a truck. She’ll wake up with a headache the size of Montreal, but she’s breathing.”

Shane exhaled through his nose. “I’m gonna take her home in my car. If you want, you can drive hers. Keys are on the kitchen counter.”

Ilya pushed off the sofa. “We’re heading back too. No point overstaying our welcome. Doc’s been more than generous.”

Shane forced a small, tight smile, the kind he used on difficult patients who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Right. Didn’t realize you’d already found somewhere else.”

“Perks of having cash and no patience,” Ilya said lightly, though his eyes stayed on Shane’s face a beat too long.

Shane nodded again, like that settled everything. “Then I should probably change that dressing on your shoulder before you go. Don’t want it weeping all over your new furniture.”

Ilya tilted his head, studying him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Shane turned toward the hallway where the first-aid supplies were still spread out from earlier. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Ilya barely had the door closed behind him before Svetlana rounded on him, her coat still half-on, voice already sharp enough to cut glass. The new apartment smelled of fresh paint and expensive wood polish, boxes stacked neatly in the corners, but none of that mattered right now. She dropped her bag on the kitchen island with a thud that echoed through the empty space.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, not even bothering to keep her volume down. “Letting Sasha pull you right back into the same fucking mess. Every time he cries, you drop everything. You think I don’t see it?”

Ilya’s jaw clenched. He tossed his keys onto the counter, the metal clinking loudly. “He called sobbing, Lana. Said he’s landing in Canada in twelve hours. What was I supposed to do? Tell him to fuck off and sleep on the street?”

Svetlana laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, please. You could’ve told him to stay where he was. Or better yet, let him figure it out. But no, you had to play savior. Again.”

“He’s scared,” Ilya snapped back. “You know how he gets. You know what my brother’s men are capable of. If I leave him out there—”

“Then he’s out there!” she cut in. “Not our problem. Not yours. You almost got yourself killed last time because he ‘needed to see you.’ You dragged us out of a safe house, Ilya. For him.”

Ilya paced two steps, then stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t just ignore it.”

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. “You know what would’ve been funny? If the pretty doctor had finally put a face to the name you were moaning in your sleep. While he was stitching you up, fever burning, calling for Sasha over and over.”

Ilya froze. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She crossed her arms tighter. “He told me. Said you wouldn’t shut up about him, ‘Sasha, Sasha.’ The whole time the good doctor was playing nurse.”

Ilya’s expression darkened. “And you didn’t think to mention that sooner?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know Sasha would actually show up?” she shot back. “Or that you’d be stupid enough to invite him straight into our new place? You think I’m psychic?”

She turned on her heel, yanking the door open again. The hallway light spilled in, cold and white.

“Where are you going?” Ilya asked, voice low.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.” She didn’t look back. “I’m too pissed off to even look at your stupid face right now.”

The door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating down the empty corridor and then gone, leaving nothing but silence and the faint hum of the fridge kicking on.

Ilya stood there for a long minute, staring at the closed door like it might open again if he waited long enough. Then he let out a slow, tired breath and sank onto the edge of the new leather couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Guilt sat heavy in his chest, the same old weight he’d been carrying for years. He didn’t love Sasha anymore, not the way he used to. That part had died somewhere between the bruises and the threats and the night he’d had to stitch Sasha’s split lip himself because no hospital would touch them. But the responsibility never left. He’d brought Sasha into this life, into the shadow of his family, and when Alexei’s men had come for payback, Sasha had paid the price in blood. Broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, nights he couldn’t sleep without waking up screaming. Ilya had seen every mark, every flinch, and promised himself he’d never let it happen again. So he’d done what he could: bodyguards with guns who never blinked, a clean apartment in Moscow with reinforced doors, cash wired whenever Sasha asked. Anything to keep the guilt from swallowing him whole.

He never said no. Not once. Even when it meant risking his own neck, even when Svetlana begged him to cut the cord and now Sasha was coming here, to Montreal, to the one place Ilya had finally started to believe might be safe. The thought made his stomach turn.

He leaned back against the cushions, eyes on the ceiling, and tried to breathe through the mess in his head. The apartment felt too big, too quiet without Svetlana’s presence filling the corners. He didn’t know what he was going to do when Sasha showed up. He didn’t know what he was going to say to Shane, either, if the doctor ever asked why. All he knew was that the old patterns were closing in again, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to break them this time.

Ilya had already set everything up so Sasha wouldn’t have to wander around the city alone. A couple of trusted guys were waiting at the airport, ready to grab him straight off the flight and bring him over, no stops, no questions, just a black SUV and direct route to the new building. The hours dragged anyway. Ilya spent them pacing the bare floors, rearranging the same three boxes in the living room, checking his phone every few minutes even though he knew the timeline. When the intercom finally buzzed, he let them up without a word.

The door opened and Sasha flew in, coat flapping, arms wide. He crashed into Ilya’s chest like he’d been running the whole way from Moscow, burying his face against Ilya’s neck and holding on tight.

“I missed you so much,” Sasha said in rapid Russian, voice muffled against skin. “You have no idea.”

He pulled back just enough to lean in for a kiss, lips brushing toward Ilya’s mouth. Ilya turned his head at the last second; the kiss landed soft on his cheek instead.

Ilya kept his hands on Sasha’s shoulders, steady but not encouraging. “What happened? Why Montreal? Why now?”

Sasha’s eyes were red-rimmed, still shiny from whatever tears he’d cried on the plane. “Alexei found me. Sent men to the apartment. They broke the everything. I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I was so scared. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Ilya felt the familiar twist in his gut. He let Sasha step closer, let him wrap both arms around his waist again. The hug was tight, desperate, and Ilya returned it after a beat, one hand resting flat on Sasha’s back. He could feel the tremor running through him.

The front door opened without warning. Svetlana walked in, keys still in her hand, expression flat when she saw them together.

Sasha lit up instantly, stepping back from Ilya but keeping one hand on his arm. “Svetlana! Hey—”

She raised a palm, cutting him off before he could finish. “Save it. You don’t need to talk to me. I’m just here to grab my stuff.”

Ilya frowned. “What the fucking are you talking about?”

“I’m moving out,” she said simply. “Staying with Rose for a while.”

Ilya took a step toward her. “Lana, come on. Let’s talk.”

Sasha’s smile faltered. “If this is because of me, I can find somewhere else. I don’t want to cause problems.”

Svetlana let out a dry laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She brushed past both of them and headed straight for the spare room where her bag was still half-packed.

Ilya followed her down the short hallway, voice low. “Don’t do this. Stay. Please.”

She didn’t stop moving, just kept folding clothes into the duffel with quick, efficient snaps. “It’s fine. Staying with Rose is actually good. She’s in this mess now because of us. I can keep an eye on her, make sure nothing follows her home.”

Ilya reached out and caught her wrist gently, stopping her mid-motion. He switched to Russian, the words coming softer, almost pleading.

Svetlana paused, looking down at his hand on her arm. Then she lifted her gaze, something softer flickering across her face. She set the shirt down and reached up, brushing her fingers along his cheek in a slow, careful stroke, the way she used to when they were young and the world felt too big.

“I’m not disappearing,” she said quietly, still in Russian. “I’ll just be across town. You need me, you call. That’s it.”

Ilya’s throat worked. He didn’t let go of her wrist right away.

She gave him one last small, tired smile, then pulled her hand free and zipped the bag. “I’ll text you the address later. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

She shouldered the duffel and walked past him again, giving Sasha the barest nod on her way to the door. The latch clicked shut behind her, quieter this time, but the silence that followed felt heavier than any slam.

Ilya stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the empty space where she’d been. Sasha watched him from the living room, arms wrapped around himself like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to move.

“Go pick a bedroom,” Ilya said, keeping his tone even. “Any one you want. You’ve got to be wiped out from the flight. Crash for a while.”

Sasha’s face brightened a little, that old familiar smile creeping back in. He nodded quickly, then turned and headed straight down the hall toward the room Svetlana had been using, the one with the bigger window. Ilya watched him disappear through the doorway, heard the soft click of the light switch, and felt something tighten in his chest that he didn’t want to name.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the thread with Shane. The last message from earlier sat there unanswered, just a string of blue bubbles on his side. 

Ilya: You get home okay?

He stared at the screen. Nothing. No dots, no read receipt, just the quiet little delivered stamp. Minutes ticked by while he paced the length of the living room once, then twice. The fridge hummed louder in the silence. He typed again.

Ilya: Already missing you, Doc.

Send. Still nothing. The words looked pathetic sitting there all alone. He exhaled through his nose, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered under his breath in Russian, “Great job, Rozanov. Really fucking smooth.”

He tried one more time, shorter this time, because maybe the longer ones were too much.

Ilya: You ignoring me?

The message went through. No response. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the kitchen island like it had personally offended him. It slid a few inches across the granite and stopped. He stared at it for a long beat, willing the screen to light up, willing those three little dots to appear. They didn’t.

He walked over to the window and looked out at the street below. Late-afternoon light slanted across parked cars, people moving in coats and scarves, normal life happening four floors down while his own felt like it was fraying at the edges. Shane had every right to pull back. Ilya knew that. The doctor had spent the last few days stitching him up, hiding him, letting him into spaces he had no business being in, and then Ilya had gone and let Sasha walk right back into the picture like nothing had changed. 

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The guilt from earlier hadn’t gone anywhere; it had just shifted, layered itself over the new mess he’d made with Shane. He could still feel the ghost of Shane’s skin under his lips, the way the doctor had frozen when things got too real too fast. Ilya had promised he wouldn’t push, and he meant it. But standing here alone in a half-furnished apartment that suddenly felt too big, and Shane not answering, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep that promise without cracking.

Two fucking days. Shane had ghosted him completely, no calls picked up, no texts answered, nothing. Ilya had sent messages that started polite and ended up edged with frustration, each one sitting there on read or worse, just delivered and ignored. The silence gnawed at him worse than any wound he’d ever taken. 

Then Lana had called earlier that afternoon. One of Alexei’s guys had gotten too close to Shane’s building—too fucking close. She’d handled it quietly, dragged the idiot into an alley and squeezed him until he spilled that he didn’t know anything about a doctor, just following a lead on Ilya. Still, the message was clear: stay away for now. Don’t draw more heat. Ilya had agreed through gritted teeth, but every hour Shane stayed silent made that promise feel thinner.

He grabbed his phone one more time, thumbs moving fast before he could second-guess it.

Ilya: If you don’t answer I’m gonna have to find my own way to make you talk to me.

He hit send, tossed the phone onto the bed, and headed for the shower. Hot water pounded against his shoulders, steam filling the small bathroom, but it didn’t wash away the restless energy buzzing under his skin. He stayed in there longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen the knots in his back, trying to convince himself he could wait this out. When he finally stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, he found Sasha standing in the doorway holding the phone, screen still glowing.

Ilya stopped short. “What are you doing with that?”

Sasha’s expression went wide-eyed and innocent in an instant, the same look he used to pull when they were younger and he’d been caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. “I came in to ask if you wanted dinner. It was ringing, I thought maybe it was Svetlana. Then I saw the name, Dr. Hollander.” He tilted his head, concern softening his features. “Are you sick? Is that why you’ve got a doctor calling you?”

Ilya crossed the room in two strides and took the phone back, careful not to let their fingers brush. “I’m not sick. It’s nothing. Go eat if you’re hungry. I’m not.”

Sasha lingered for a second, mouth opening like he wanted to ask more, but something in Ilya’s tone must have stopped him. He nodded once, small and quiet, then slipped out, pulling the door closed behind him.

The second the latch clicked, Ilya swiped to call. Shane picked up on the second ring.

“Don’t even think about doing something stupid,” Shane said before Ilya could get a word out. “You’ll rip those stitches open and I’m not coming back to fix them.”

Ilya exhaled, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “I need to see you.”

“No.”

“I’m serious, Doc. One hour. I’ll be there.”

“I’m not home,” Shane said flatly. “I’m at a friend’s place.”

Ilya’s grip tightened on the phone. “Fine. I’ll swing by Pike’s and grab you.”

“It’s not Pike.”

The words landed like a slap. Ilya felt the jealousy surge up his throat, thick and immediate, burning hotter than the irritation from before. He swallowed it down long enough to speak. “Give me the address. I’ll come get you.”

“No.”

“Hollander.” His voice dropped lower, edged with something dangerous. “I’ve got ways of finding out.”

There was a pause on the other end, long enough that Ilya could hear Shane’s breathing, steady but tense. When he spoke again, the words came out careful.

“An hour. I’ll be back at my apartment by then.”

The line went dead.

Ilya stood there for a beat, phone still pressed to his ear, the dial tone humming faintly. He lowered it slowly, staring at the dark screen. Relief and frustration twisted together until he couldn’t tell them apart. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, water still dripping down his neck, and moved to grab clothes from the dresser. An hour. He could make it in less if he left now. He would.