Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Original Characters, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Accidental Public Displays of Affection, Idiots in Love, quiet intimacy, Strangers Noticing Things, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, unintentional comedy

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-22 Completed: 2026-04-02 Words: 39,268 Chapters: 38/38

All the Quiet Witnesses

Summary

Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander think they’re being subtle.

They are not.

A series of outsider POVs (from taxi drivers to hot dog vendors) who all, independently, come to the same conclusion.

Update: All the chapters are independant so I will add some chapters when I have new ideas!

Notes

I had this idea that Shane and Ilya were not really very discreet, even when they tried to be...
So here are a few POVs from random people who witnessed their "secret" love!

This fic is marked complete, but I might add more chapters in the future. Feel free to subscribe if you’d like a notification when that happens!

Chapter 1: Taxi Driver

Henry had been driving a taxi in Ottawa for almost thirty years.

Long enough to know that airports brought out the truth in people. They stripped people down to their essentials.

You could tell who someone was by the way they waited.

Stress, relief, anticipation, sometimes all at once.

He’d seen businessmen arguing with ghosts on Bluetooth headsets, already half on their next call.  Families clustered together, eyes flicking constantly to the arrivals board, children vibrating with excitement or exhaustion. Angry people, crying over delayed flights.

Lovers...ah, lovers were the easiest! They clung to each other like they might disappear if they let go. Or sometimes they hovered near the sliding doors, pretending to be casual while checking their phones every thirty seconds.

That was the fun part of the job: stories you only ever saw for five minutes, already halfway written before you arrived.

Henry liked that about the airport.

He preferred the airport route these days. It was close to his place, for one thing, and the work was steady. He didn’t have to deal with late-night drunks or construction detours. Just arrivals, departures, and the quiet satisfaction of being a small part of someone else’s story.

He pulled into the free waiting area and shifted the car into park. He glanced automatically at the arrivals app on his phone, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

Air Canada flight AC8923, from Boston to Ottawa, was due to arrive at any minute now. On time, for once.

He smiled faintly. That was rare enough to count as a good omen.

As he waited, he noticed the car parked beside him. Definitely not a taxi. A rental, maybe, or someone picking up a friend. The driver was a young man, mid-twenties, sitting too straight in his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape.

Henry watched him out of the corner of his eye.

The man checked the mirror. Adjusted his collar. Ran a hand through his hair. Stopped, frowned, checked again. At one point, Henry nearly laughed out loud when the guy leaned forward and checked his teeth.

Ah.

First date energy.

He’d seen that exact brand of nerves more times than he could count. First dates. Long-distance reunions. Proposals, sometimes. People about to step into a moment they’d been imagining for weeks, months, years.

Airport romance. It was his favorite kind!

The nervous excitement, the hope. This one looked particularly far gone, bouncing his knee, wiping his palms on his jeans.

His eyes were constantly flicking toward the terminal doors. He smiled suddenly at nothing, then seemed to catch himself and pressed his lips together, as if embarrassed by his own excitement.

Henry leaned back in his seat, imagination already spinning.

Boston girl, then.

That made sense. AC8923 was coming in from Boston, after all. Maybe they’d met online. Facebook group, perhaps? Gaming forum? His own son spent hours yelling into a headset, falling in love with strangers halfway across the continent, laughing at jokes Henry didn’t understand. Love happened in stranger places these days.

Though… the man looked pretty athletic. Broad shoulders, easy posture beneath the nerves.

Let’s go with a Yoga retreat, then. That’s fun.

Yes. California. Sunsets, shared smoothies, bare feet on wooden decks. They’d bonded over downward dog and meaningful glances. Promised to visit. Promises kept, apparently.

Cute!

Henry sighed contentedly. He liked making up lives for strangers. It made his job feel full instead of empty while he waits.

The arrivals doors slid open, releasing a small flood of passengers. Henry watched idly, waiting for the usual wave of customers scanning the parking area for taxis.

He was so lost in the story that he almost missed the tall blond man hurrying across the curb from the terminal, dragging a carry-on behind him. Broad shoulders, long stride, scanning the parking lot like he already knew exactly who he was looking for.

The moment his gaze landed on the car beside Henry's...

Oh, well.

Not a Boston yoga girl after all.

The nervous man in the car noticed at the same time. His entire posture transformed. The tension drained out of him so fast it was almost startling. He was smiling before he even opened the door.

He didn’t bother closing it.

He just stepped out and stood there, thumbs shoved into his jeans pockets like he didn’t trust his hands not to give him away.

The blond man broke into a grin so wide it felt indecent to witness. He abandoned his suitcase entirely, letting it topple onto its side as he crossed the remaining distance in long strides.

They stopped an arm’s length apart. For half a second, just one, they hesitated.

Then the blond man laughed, low and breathless, and pressed his forehead briefly against the other’s, hands coming up automatically, like this was muscle memory. Like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Henry looked away politely.

Not because he was embarrassed. Because some moments deserved privacy, even if they happened in the middle of an airport parking lot.

When he glanced back, the two men were talking over each other, smiling, touching casually, hand on arm, shoulder bump, fingers brushing like it meant nothing at all. Except it very clearly meant everything.

The nervous man retrieved the fallen suitcase, rolling it toward the car while the blond man followed close behind, saying something that made the other laugh again.

They didn’t kiss.

That was what struck Henry the most.

They didn’t kiss, even though the urge was written all over them. Instead, they hovered in that charged, careful space people occupied when they knew they were being watched but couldn’t quite stop themselves from reaching out anyway.

Henry understood that, too.

Some loves liked to stay quiet.

The blond man slid into the passenger seat of the car beside him, still smiling, still talking. The nervous man, no longer nervous at all, started the engine, glancing over at him with a look that made Henry's chest ache unexpectedly.

Not new love, then.

Old love.

The kind that survived distance. Schedules. Long silences and longer waits.

Henry pulled out of the waiting area as a couple of new passengers approached his cab. He greeted them warmly, helped with their bags, and merged back into traffic.

As he drove away from the airport, he caught one last glimpse of the other car in his rearview mirror, turning onto the highway.

He smiled to himself.

Whatever their story was, he hoped they had a good time in Ottawa.

He always had a soft spot for romance.

Chapter 2: Bartender

This was, objectively, the best bartending gig he’d ever booked. All-Star weekend. Five-star hotel. Unlimited expense accounts.

By the time Friday night hit, Theo already knew two things for certain.

- One: All-Star Weekend was going to be hell on his feet.

- Two: It was absolutely worth it.

The hotel bar was packed in that particular way only expensive places ever got, men in tailored suits pretending they weren’t staring, women in dresses sharp enough to cut glass, agents hovering like anxious birds. Theo wiped down the counter for the fifth time in as many minutes, straightened the garnish tray, and reminded himself to breathe.

He’d picked up this shift for the money, obviously. The tip potential alone was obscene. But if he was being honest, just a little, it was also for Max.

Max, his boyfriend of three years, the love of his life, and devoted hockey nerd.

He didn’t even watch hockey himself. But Max did. Religiously. Which meant he, by association, knew the names, the rivalries, the basic rules. He’d absorbed most of his knowledge through osmosis: late-night games playing in the background, Max yelling at the television, detailed rants about rivalries delivered while Theo brushed his teeth.

What he cared about were the players. Specifically, the very attractive men skating around at high speeds.

They had once, drunk and delighted, started their very serious, very scientific “cutest hockey players” list.

Which meant that when two men sat down at his bar, Max and Theo number one and number two picks, he nearly short-circuited.

He did not stare.

Professionally.

But he noticed.

They arrived separately, which was normal enough. The first one, blond, sharp grin, broad shoulders, moving through the bar like he owned the space. Even in his Hawaiian shirt. People turned. Heads followed. Theo clocked him immediately and had to physically restrain himself from texting Max guess who is sitting at my bar right now in all caps.

Then the other one arrived.

Tall. Dark hair. Quiet in a way that drew attention instead of deflecting it. He hesitated for just a second before sitting two stools away, like proximity itself was a calculated risk.

They did not greet each other.

Which was weird.

Theo poured drinks. Listened. Observed. Tried unsuccessfully to remember their names.

He had excellent gaydar. Not in the “every man with good hair is gay” way. No, this was honed through years of experience, pattern recognition, and surviving multiple brunches with Max’s friend group.

His gaydar was usually impeccable, and this… this was loud. Not in a flashy way. In a quiet, electric, don’t-touch-me-like-that-in-public way.

They talked, but not like strangers. Not like rivals, either. There was a carefulness to it, a threading of conversation that suggested shared history. The dark-haired one leaned in when he laughed, shoulder angling just slightly closer. The blond one mirrored him without seeming to realize it, knees turning in, posture softening.

Theo slid two drinks toward them.

Their hands brushed while they took their drinks.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough.

Neither of them pulled away quickly.

Theo’s soul briefly left his body.

Okay. Okay. Calm down. That meant nothing. Bars were crowded. Hands touches all the time. He was projecting. This was just two absurdly attractive men who hated each other for sport, like Max always said.

He moved down the bar, served another customer, returned.

They were closer now.

Not by much. Half a stool, maybe. But Theo had spent enough time watching body language to know when gravity was involved.

The dark-haired one said something low. The blond one smiled, small, private, like the smile was meant for him alone. He kept glancing at the other’s mouth like he’d forgotten what conversation was for.

Theo felt heat creep up his neck.

Should he text Max?

No. No, absolutely not. This was how rumors started. He wasn’t outing anyone. And he had no proof. Just vibes. High-quality vibes, sure, but vibes nonetheless.

He focused on polishing a glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

The dark-haired man reached out, fingers trailing across the back of the blond man’s hand.

Just once.

Like a test.

Theo dropped the glass.

It didn’t break, miracle of miracles, but the sound echoed loud enough that both men looked up and separated quickly.

“Sorry,” Theo blurted, mortified. “Slippery.”

The dark-haired man nodded politely. The blond one grinned like he knew exactly what had just happened and found it amusing.

Theo retreated.

He poured himself a glass of water. Drank it too fast. Reminded himself that he was a professional adult with a job and bills and that two hockey players quietly flirting at his bar was not, in fact, his problem.

They ordered another round.

Theo delivered it without comment, eyes fixed firmly on the counter.

Their knees touched.

They did not move them apart.

Theo stared at the liquor shelf like it might offer guidance.

Do not text Max, he told himself. Do not text Max, do not text Max…

The dark-haired one laughed suddenly, discreet but delighted, and leaned into the blond man’s space. The blond man responded without hesitation, hand coming up to steady him by the waist for just a second.

By the waist.

Theo made a strangled noise that he passed off as a cough and turned away before he could witness anything else.

This was too much. This was intimate. This was hands-on-hips-at-a-public-bar energy. This was not a rivalry.

This was foreplay.

He busied himself with the far end of the bar, desperately avoiding eye contact. He could feel the tension radiating off them like heat, curling around his spine, making his ears burn.

If they needed another round, they could wave.

His phone buzzed.

Max: so. tell me everything!!!

Theo stared at the screen.

He typed, deleted, typed again.

Theo: i cannot. ethically. emotionally. spiritually.

Max: ???

Theo locked his phone and pressed his forehead to the cool marble of the bar.

Some secrets, he decided, were above his pay grade.

He hoped they tipped well.

Chapter 3: Housekeeper

Meredith liked order.

She liked clean lines, tucked sheets, carts stocked exactly the same way every morning. She liked knowing what a room should look like when she opened the door.

People passed through, but the rules stayed the same. Check-in, check-out. Dirty, then clean. She didn’t need to know anyone’s story to do her job well, only whether they wanted fresh towels or extra pillows.

Still, after twelve years in housekeeping, you learned to read the signs.

Room 2481 had been booked for one guest. Montreal team. Four nights.

Meredith checked her clipboard twice before knocking.

No answer.

The Do Not Disturb sign hung from the handle again, just like yesterday. It had barely moved since the first night. The rules are clear, she still needed to change the towels after 2 days. She hesitated, then unlocked the door with her keycard, pushing her cart inside.

The room smelled faintly of coffee, cologne, and something warmer underneath. Lived-in.

Not messy. Not careless. Just… used.

She started with the bathroom.

Meredith paused.

Two toothbrushes in the cup. One blue, one white. One is still damp with a trace of toothpaste on the side. One carefully rinsed and with a head cover on.

That happened sometimes. Guests forgot things. Lovers visited. It wasn’t her business.

Still. She moved on.

On the desk, room service had left a tray.

One dessert plate.

Two forks.

Meredith shook her head softly and gathered the dishes. She didn’t judge. She’d seen everything in this job. Discretion was part of the uniform.

She worked quickly, efficiently, resetting the room to neutral. New towels. Fresh sheets.

The bed was the next giveaway. One bed, king-sized, sheets almost on the floor. Pillows mismatched, one on the floor, one propped against the headboard.

Meredith smiled despite herself.

She stripped the bed with practiced movements, folding as she went. There were faint creases where bodies had lain close. While making the bed, a scrap of paper fell on the floor.

She hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to touch personal items, but she still picked it up.

It wasn’t a note. Just a list. Handwritten, blocky letters.

• coffee
• keys
• passport
• don’t forget me :)

She folded it back exactly as she’d found it and set it down on the side table, heart suddenly very full.

She was pushing her cart back into the hallway when the elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

The man stepped out with an expression Meredith didn’t usually see on guests.

He was smiling. Not the polite smile people gave the staff. Not the tired one after a long night. This was private. Soft. Like something had gone right and he was still carrying it with him.

He walked past her without noticing, phone pressed to his ear.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back later.”

She caught just a hint of an accent, Canadian maybe, and something else underneath. Fondness.

Meredith watched him disappear down the hall.

Yesterday morning, she was certain it had been a different man leaving the room. Taller. Heavier accent. Russian, she thought, though she couldn’t say exactly. He’d been laughing into his phone, unconcerned with who might hear.

Two men. One room. One booking.

Ah.

She pushed her cart toward the vending machines, humming softly to herself.

Young love always leaves traces behind.

The next morning, it was check-out.

Room 2481 was quiet when she entered. The bed was neatly made this time, almost too neat. The bathroom counter was wiped clean, toothbrushes were gone.

The Do Not Disturb sign lay on the desk.

She picked it up and placed it back where it belonged.

She hoped, wherever they were going next, they’d find another room.

One with enough space for two.

Chapter 4: Airplane Seatmate

Marianne liked early flights, aisle seats, and reports finished before takeoff. She liked boarding groups that moved when instructed and overhead bins that closed properly on the first try.

At fifty, she had learned that the secret to peace was preparation, and the secret to preparation was never, ever trusting airline Wi-Fi unless you absolutely had to.

Which was why by the time the plane leveled off, she was already three pages deep into her report and blissfully ignoring the mild turbulence. She tried to finish fast.

She barely noticed her seatmate at first.

He was young, with dark hair, athletic build and absurdly handsome in that unfair way. He boarded late, apologized quietly as he slid into the window seat, and immediately pulled out his phone like it was a lifeline.

Marianne clocked that, but didn’t dwell on it. People are attached to their devices these days. She was attached to results.

She finished her report just as the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights. Satisfied, she closed her laptop, leaned back, and stretched her fingers.

Time for a break.

She let her gaze wander, not stare, mind you, just drift politely around the cabin. The woman across the aisle had already fallen asleep. Someone behind her was snoring aggressively. The seatbelt sign dinged.

Then…

A sound.

Not loud. Not disruptive. Just a soft, surprised little laugh.

Marianne’s attention snagged.

Her seatmate was smiling at his phone.

Not a polite smile. Not a work smile. This was fond. Almost disbelieving. Like whatever he was reading had caught him off guard in the best possible way.

Marianne was not proud of what happened next. Curiosity was her greatest vice.

She glanced.

Discreetly. Professionally. The way one glanced at headlines on a newspaper without reading the article.

The name at the top of the screen was impossible to miss.

Lily ❤️

Ah.

That explained the airplane Wi-Fi.

Marianne had opinions about people who paid for airplane Wi-Fi for non-work reasons, but she kept them to herself. Love made people do financially irresponsible things. She’d once paid for international roaming just to argue with her ex-husband.

The message preview popped up.

Lily: did you survive the airport or security confiscate your dignity again??

Marianne pressed her lips together.

She liked Lily already.

Her seatmate typed back, thumbs moving fast, smile widening. He tilted the screen slightly away but not enough to block the view entirely.

Marianne looked away.

She was curious, not rude. Just a woman who enjoyed harmless gossip she’d never repeat.

Still, she could hear the soft taps of typing, the occasional amused exhale. It was impossible not to notice how invested he was. People didn’t smile like that at small talk.

Another message came in.

Lily: also important question. what are you wearing right now

Marianne choked on her water.

She will not look again this time.

She did, however, notice when her seatmate froze.

Completely still. Shoulders locked. Smile wiped clean off his face like someone had hit a switch.

Then. A noise.

A strangled, panicked sound, halfway between a laugh and a cough.

Against her better judgment, Marianne flicked her eyes sideways just as his phone betrayed him.

It was only a split second.

Long enough.

Oh dear.

She saw skin. She saw framing that suggested intent. She saw enough to immediately and decisively regret every life choice that had led her to this moment.

The phone was slapped face-down onto the tray table so hard it rattled.

They locked eyes.

There was a beat of mutual horror.

Then they both looked away at the exact same time, like well-trained participants in a social contract neither of them had signed up for.

Marianne stared very intently at the seatback in front of her.

Her seatmate sat ramrod straight, ears turning an impressive shade of red.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them breathed.

Finally, Marianne cleared her throat. Softly. Carefully. Like she was approaching a wild animal.

“Airplane Wi-Fi,” she said mildly. “Dangerous thing.”

He let out a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence.

He picked up his phone again, slowly this time, and slid it into the seat pocket like it might explode.

Marianne nodded approvingly.

Good idea.

The rest of the flight passed in excruciating politeness. They did not speak again. They did not look at each other. They existed in adjacent spaces, united only by shared trauma and the low hum of the engines.

Halfway through the flight, his phone buzzed again.

He did not check it.

Marianne almost admired his restraint.

As the plane began its descent, she gathered her things and stood as soon as the seatbelt sign chimed off. He followed suit, still avoiding eye contact.

At the door, she paused.

“Tell Lily,” she said, without looking at him, “that airplane mode is there for a reason.”

He laughed, really this time. But still shy. “I will. I promise.”

She smiled to herself as she stepped out and blushed again.

Curiosity, she reflected, always came with consequences.

Chapter 5: Dog Walker

Camille walked her dogs every morning at six thirty.

Not because she was a morning person (she absolutely was not), but because Mario and Zelda were tiny demons who believed sunrise was the perfect time for a nice walk. Also because Montreal mornings were quieter then, and she liked pretending the city belonged to her for half an hour before going to work.

Her two dachshunds with no concept of personal space or urgency, trotted ahead of her, leashes tangled every few seconds. Camille sighed, untwisted them with practiced hands, and glanced up at the apartment building across the street.

He was leaving again.

She tried not to stare. She really did. But it was hard not to notice Ilya Rozanov when he exited a building like he owned the block, hood up, headphones in, looking deeply pleased with himself for reasons that felt none of her business and yet extremely fascinating.

She’d been seeing him come and go for years now. Always when Boston was in town. Always from the same building. Always alone.

Which was weird?

Hockey players stayed in hotels. Everyone knew that. Especially visiting captains. And yet here he was, slipping out of an apartment building like it was his.

Camille adjusted her grip on the leashes and pretended to be very interested in her dogs.

She was a hockey fan. Like, a fan fan. Born and raised. You didn’t grow up in Canada without picking a team early and defending it forever. Hers was Montreal. No contest.

Her favorite player was Shane Hollander.

This was important.

Which was why she had, on multiple occasions, deliberately not asked Rozanov for an autograph. It wasn’t that she didn’t want one. It was that loyalty mattered. You didn’t casually chat up the captain of Boston when your heart belonged to Montreal.

Even if he did have a stupidly nice smile. And was a very good player (sorry Shane!).

She watched him head down the street, dogs pulling her along behind him, whether she wanted to follow or not.

“Don’t,” she whispered to them. “We are not following him. We are normal.”

Mario sneezed. Zelda attempted to eat a leaf.

But this morning, someone came running after him.

“Wait, you forgot this!”

She gasped.

An actual, audible gasp. One of those embarrassing little inhales.

Shane Hollander was jogging down the street, hair a mess, sweatpants riding low on his hips, expression focused.

Camille’s brain blue-screened.

She dove behind a trash can, heart pounding, dachshunds confused and offended.

“I know,” she hissed. “I know this is weird. Just…trust me.”

Shane held up something small in his hand, keys, maybe? Or a phone? Something important enough that Rozanov immediately jogged back toward him.

Shane reached Rozanov, breathless and smiling. Not the press smile. Not the game face. This one was soft, almost shy.

“Oh,” Rozanov said, and laughed. “Yeah. That would be bad.”

Shane handed it over, fingers lingering just a beat too long.

Camille’s heart was pounding so hard she was convinced they could hear it.

They stood there, talking quietly. Rozanov said something that made Shane snort.  They were standing too close. Not touching, but close. The kind of close that didn’t happen by accident.

She peeked over the trash can.

Shane smiled again.

It was the smile he wore in post-game interviews when he was trying not to say too much. The one Camille had watched on replay more times than she would ever admit.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

After a moment, footsteps moved away.

She waited. Counted to ten. To twenty. To thirty.

Then she peeked again.

Shane disappeared through the front doors. Rozanov rounded the corner of the street.

Camille slid down onto the sidewalk, sitting hard.

Her dogs immediately climbed into her lap, delighted.

“No,” she said faintly. “No. No, no, no.”

This was not possible.

Boston’s captain and Montreal’s golden boy did not sneak around together like characters in a romance book.

Except…

Apparently, they did.

Camille stayed there for a long moment, staring at the building like it might offer answers.

Then she stood up, brushed herself off, and started walking again.

Maybe… maybe that means she could cheer for Boston’s captain. Just a little. In very specific circumstances.

Not against Montreal, obviously.

She wasn’t a traitor.

She smiled despite herself and tugged gently on the leashes.

“Come on,” she told her dogs. “We have a secret now.”

Mario wagged his tail and Zelda barked, like they agreed.

Chapter 6: Hot Dog Vendor

Rufus felt like he’d been running this food cart longer than most people had been alive.

The city changed around him, buildings went up, teams won and lost, faces blurred into new ones. But his corner of the city stayed good. Late nights, hungry people, quiet conversations that didn’t need an audience.

That suited him just fine.

He didn’t care much for hockey.

He knew enough, obviously. You lived in Boston, you absorbed it whether you wanted to or not. Jerseys everywhere, voices rising and falling with the season. He could name the captain, knew when the team was on a winning streak, and knew when not to bring it up.

But fame never impressed him.

Manners did.

Which was why he liked Ilya.

The kid came around late, usually after the bars thinned out. Never loud. Never rude. Always said please, always said thanks. Sometimes stayed to eat right there, leaning against the cart while they talked about nothing in particular.

Weather. Traffic. Whether the onions looked any good that night in his hot dog.

Sometimes it felt like Ilya needed the quiet.

So when he showed up one night and said, “Two hot dogs please!” Rufus noticed.

Didn’t comment. Just nodded and got to work.

He handed them over and watched Ilya count out the money, smile distracted, eyes already flicking across the street.

The park was empty except for one bench and one man sitting on it.

Young. Dark-haired. Hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Ilya crossed the street without hesitation.

Rufus pretended not to watch.

But of course he did.

Ilya handed over one hot dog like it was an offering. The other man laughed, said something that made Ilya grin wide and unguarded. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench, knees touching, talking with their mouths full like they’d forgotten where they were.

They leaned in close, not dramatic, not secretive. Just… natural.

Rufus felt something settle in his chest.

About time.

He’d seen Ilya alone too often. Had noticed the way the kid lingered longer some nights, like he didn’t want to go back to an empty place. People like that didn’t need advice. They needed company.

After a while, Ilya came back with the wrappers, tossing them into the trash beside the cart.

Rufus raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you shared.”

Ilya startled. Blushed like he’d been caught stealing.

“Ah…yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Friend’s visiting.”

Rufus snorted. “Good to see you with someone else, for once.”

Ilya laughed, quietly and embarrassed. “He’s… good.”

“That’s what matters.” he answered.

Ilya looked surprised at that. Then relieved. Mumbled something that might have been a thank you or a good night.

Rufus smiled to himself as the kid hurried back to the park. To this man.

When he closed up for the night, the park was empty again. Just the bench. Just the streetlight.

He locked the cart and headed home.

Tomorrow night, he’d be there again. Then the nights after.

Maybe the kid will come back for two hot dogs again.

Chapter 7: Park Bench Lady

Sleep was an unreliable companion for Dorothy.

It came and went as it pleased, never staying as long as she wanted. Some nights it abandoned her entirely, leaving her staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until morning felt reasonable. It had been like that since her husband passed away seven years ago.

On those days, she went to the park. She dressed quietly, wrapped herself in a cardigan no matter the season, and took the familiar path down the street while the city of Ottawa still felt half-asleep. The ducks were always awake. They recognized her footsteps now, the soft rustle of the paper bag she carried.

She liked that.

It was good to be expected.

The bench near the pond was hers, as much as anything could belong to someone in a public park. The wood was worn smooth in the places she sat, the view unchanged despite the years. She fed the ducks carefully, scattering just enough to keep them from fighting.

Routine, she’d learned, was a kindness.

That was how she noticed the runners.

Two of them, not always together, but always early. The dark-haired one didn’t come all the time, but it was becoming more frequent. When they are together, they come from the same direction, feet hitting the path in a steady rhythm. She didn’t know their names. Didn’t need to. The blond one ran with more energy, talking as he ran, hands cutting through the air. The other moved with more focus, more control but always listening intensely to the other.

They weren’t young-young. Not boys. Men, she thought, in the middle of things.

They go past her bench every time.

Sometimes they ran. Sometimes they walked. Once, they arrived with coffee cups, steam curling into the cold air. They didn’t always stop, but they always glanced her way, a small acknowledgment.

She noticed things.

The way the taller one reached for the other’s sleeve when he laughed too hard. The way the dark-haired one slowed his pace instinctively, matching steps without looking. The way silence between them felt comfortable, weighted with understanding and love.

They talked quietly. About nothing she could quite follow. About schedules and flights and places she’d never been. As they walked away, shoulders touching, she watched them go with a soft smile.

Today they began to slow nearby. Stretching. Catching their breath. Laughing softly like they were sharing a joke the world didn’t need to hear.

She watched without staring.

People were like birds that way. If you were still enough, they forgot you were there.

But this morning, the taller one stopped entirely and looked up at the pond with open fascination.

“So many!” he said, accent thick and warm.

She smiled and held out the bag. “They’re greedy. But harmless.”

Both men lit up at once.

They approached like children given permission to play. The light-haired one crouched immediately, tossing feed with dramatic flair. The other one laughed, delighted when the ducks surged forward in a flurry of feathers.

She watched their joy settle into the space around them.

They stayed longer than usual that day.

They talked to the ducks. Argued about which one was the boldest. The dark-haired man fed one duck by hand, holding still with reverent concentration while the other teased him mercilessly.

When they finally stood to leave, both thanked her. Polite. Earnest.

“See you tomorrow,” the Russian one said without thinking.

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

She scattered the last of the feed and folded the empty bag.

When she rose from the bench, the park was brighter. The city was waking-up.

She walked home slowly, smiling to herself.

Sleep might not come easily anymore.

But mornings like this, full of love, made the waiting worthwhile.

Chapter 8: Florist

The call comes in ten minutes before closing, which already puts the florist in a bad mood.

Kate’s halfway through sweeping petals off the floor, shoes kicked off behind the counter, mentally composing the text she’s going to send her sister about dinner plans, when the shop phone rings. She considers letting it go to voicemail. She really does.

Then she answers.

“Kate from the Thorny Business, speaking,” she says, professional by muscle memory alone. “How can I help you?”

There’s a pause. Breathing. Then a deep voice, accented, energetic, like it belongs to someone who talks with their hands.

“Yes, hello. I need flowers. Very important flowers.”

She straightens a little. Important flowers are her specialty.

“For when?” she asks.

“Tomorrow morning. Early. Is for… celebration.”

“Congratulations?” she prompts.

“Yes,” he says enthusiastically. “Very congratulations.”

She smiles despite herself. “Great. What’s the occasion?”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“He won.”

“Won what?”

“He just won.” the man repeats, as if that explains everything.

She waits.

There’s a thoughtful hum on the other end of the line. “Is… big thing. Trophy. But I think you do not need details.”

Kate narrows her eyes at the receiver. “You don’t want anything themed?”

“No sports things,” he says quickly. “Please. Just flowers. Very good flowers.”

Okay then.

They move on to preferences. The man has a lot of them.

He wants bold colors. Reds, definitely. Whites for contrast. Nothing too delicate. Nothing shy. “He is not shy,” the man explains, then corrects himself immediately. “Well. He is shy, but not like that.”

She scribbles notes furiously.

“What about roses?” she suggests.

“Oh yes,” he says. “Roses are good. Classic. Sexy.”

Kate pauses. “Sexy?”

“Yes,” he says, like this is obvious. “This is sexy congratulations.”

She bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay. And the card?”

Another pause. Longer. Suspicious.

“I want message,” he says carefully. “But maybe… you help?”

She leans back against the counter, already invested. “Sure. What kind of tone?”

“Poem,” he says immediately. “But not sad poem. Like...” he struggles for the word. “...like teasing. Like flirting.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want a flirty congratulatory poem.”

“Yes! Exactly. Very good.”

“Anything specific you want included?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “That I am proud. That he worked very hard. That he looks very good when he wins.”

She coughs.

“And,” he adds, warming to the topic, “that I cannot wait to celebrate with him later.”

“Celebrate how?” Kate asks before she can stop herself.

There’s a beat. Then a low, delighted laugh crackles through the phone.

“You are funny,” he says still laughing. “You already know!”

She does know. She absolutely knows.

Kate glances around the empty shop, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Okay. Let’s workshop.”

By the time they hang up, she has pages of notes and a grin she cannot wipe off her face.

The final card reads:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You earned every cheer,

I’m so proud of you,

Enjoy all the praise,

The trophies, the fame,

Then come to my bed

And let me remind you I’m the best.

Kate rereads it three times, then once more just for fun.

“Oh,” she says aloud to no one. “Oh, this is good.”

The order is extravagant. Over-the-top. Too many roses. Exactly enough roses. She arranges them herself, adjusting stems until the bouquet looks like it’s about to make a dramatic entrance somewhere.

When she checks the delivery address, she pauses.

It’s not a house. It’s not a hotel.

It’s a practice facility.

She stares at the paper. Then she laughs.

“Oh,” she says again. “Oh, this is even better.”

Kate could hand it off to the delivery driver. She absolutely could. No one would blame her.

But she’s nosy.

And this is too funny.

So the next morning Kate grabs her coat, lifts the bouquet carefully, and drives herself.

The arena is quiet when she arrives, echoing in that way big spaces do when everyone important has gone home. A receptionist points her down a hallway with a polite smile.

“He’s in the locker room,” the woman says. “Just knock.”

The florist knocks.

A voice answers from inside. “Yeah?”

She opens the door to find a man sitting on a bench, towel around his neck, hair damp, face still flushed like adrenaline hasn’t fully let him go yet. He looks up and immediately freezes.

“Oh,” he says.

Kate beams. “Delivery for Shane.”

He stands too fast, knocking his legs into the bench. “That’s… yeah that’s me.”

She hands him the bouquet.

He takes it like it might explode.

“They’re beautiful,” he says automatically, then frowns. “Wait. Who sent these?”

She gestures delicately to the card. “Why don’t you read?”

He does.

Color rises up his neck in real time.

The florist watches it happen with professional fascination. Pink to red to almost to purple, really.

“Oh my god.” he mutters.

She bites her cheek. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No problem. Just...”

He glances up at her, mortified. “Did you… did you read this?”

“Oh,” she says cheerfully. “Of course. I helped write it!”

He makes a noise that might be a prayer.

Shane presses the card flat against his chest, like it might try to escape. “He didn’t have to do this.”

Kate laughs. “Oh, he very much wanted to.”

Shane’s phone buzzes in his hand. He looks at it, then at the flowers, then back at the phone.

She steps back toward the door, mission accomplished, heart warm and mildly feral.

As she leaves, she hears Shane answer his phone, voice softening immediately.

“They’re amazing,” he says. “You’re ridiculous.”

There’s a pause.

Then Shane adds softly, “I’ll see you soon.”

Kate closes the door quietly behind her, grinning all the way down the hallway.

Some deliveries are worth doing yourself.

Chapter 9: Make-a-Wish Teenager

Chapter Notes

I hope this one won’t be triggering to anyone. I tried to stay very vague and avoid specific details about illness, as that can be difficult for some people.

The hospital room smells like disinfectant and old coffee, the kind that’s been sitting on a warmer since dawn. The teenager has been here long enough to know the rhythms of it: the nurse with the squeaky shoes, the doctor who always pauses before knocking, the way afternoons stretch thin and strange when you’re too tired to sleep but too wired to rest.

When they tell him his Make-A-Wish is happening today, he assumes it’ll be quick. A handshake. A photo. A practiced smile and a “keep fighting, buddy” before the guy disappears back into the real world.

Instead, Ilya Rozanov sits down.

He actually sits on the edge of the bed, long legs folded awkwardly, elbows on his knees like he has nowhere else to be. He’s taller than the photos, broader too, all sharp angles and restless energy contained just barely under the polite visitor version of himself. He smells faintly like cold air.

“So,” Ilya says, glancing around the room, eyes catching on the poster taped crookedly to the wall. “This is… not arena.”

Kyle snorts despite himself. “Yeah. Kinda missing the ice.”

Ilya makes a face, dramatic and immediate. “They should add a small rink in the waiting room.”

It’s stupid, but it works. The kid laughs, a real one, and Ilya grins like he’s won something important. They talk about hockey, obviously. About Boston, about captaining a team full of grown men who apparently can’t remember to stretch unless someone yells at them. Ilya tells stories that feel improvised, jumping from topic to topic, hands moving constantly.

He doesn’t rush.

That’s the thing Kyle notices first. Ilya isn’t checking the clock. He isn’t glancing at the door. When a nurse pokes her head in and says she’ll be back later, Ilya nods like this is exactly where he planned to be all afternoon.

At some point, the conversation slows. Kyle’s energy dips, like it always does. But he knows that this visit is special, something he’ll replay later when the room feels too quiet again.

There’s something he’s been holding back.

“So,” he says, staring very hard at the blanket. “This will sound bad.”

Ilya perks up immediately. “I am excellent at bad!”

The kid swallows. “I mean, I really like you. You’re… great. But my favorite player is actually…”

He risks a glance up. Ilya is watching him closely, not smiling now, but not upset either. Just attentive.

“…Shane Hollander.”

There’s a beat. Then Ilya puts a hand over his heart and leans back like he’s been shot.

“Wow,” he says. “I come all this way. I sit on tiny bed. I tell my best jokes. And this is how you hurt me.”

Kyle laughs, relieved, and apologizes immediately, words tripping over each other. Ilya waves it off, shaking his head, mock-tragic.

“No, no. It’s fine. He is… okay hockey player, I guess.”

“Okay?” the teenager protests automatically.

Ilya grins, sharp and fond in a way that doesn’t quite match the teasing words. He looks down at his hands for a second, then back up, expression shifting into something conspiratorial.

“Hey,” he says, lowering his voice. “You are good at keeping secrets?”

Kyle nods without thinking.

Ilya reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. It’s cracked at the corner, screen smudged with fingerprints. He holds it like it’s something fragile.

“Because,” Ilya continues, glancing at the door even though they’re alone, “this is… not for everyone.”

He unlocks the phone and turns the screen slightly so the kid can see. The contact name at the top makes no sense at first.

Jane.

Ilya taps the video call button before the teenager can ask.

It rings once. Twice.

Then the screen fills with a face Kyle recognizes instantly, even without the jersey, even without the ice. Shane Hollander, hair a little messy, eyes soft and familiar in a way that feels too intimate for a public figure. He smiles when he sees Ilya, easy and automatic.

“Hey Ilya,” Shane says. “You done yet, or are you still being charming?”

Kyle freezes.

Ilya laughs, bright and unguarded. “I am always charming.” He turns the screen to face the teenager in the bed.

“I am with friend.” Ilya says, and there’s something different in his voice now. Softer. Real.

“Hello,” Shane says, leaning closer to the camera, gaze flicking briefly, very briefly, toward Ilya. “I’m Shane, nice to meet you!”

They kept talking for a while, the three of them.

Shane’s smile widens, gentle and warm, and when he says Ilya’s name, he says it on purpose, familiar and affectionate. Not Rozanov. Never Rozanov.

The kid doesn’t need anything explained.

It’s all there, suddenly obvious: the way Ilya’s shoulders relax, the way his mouth tilts when Shane talks, the way this call feels less like a favor and more like a check-in. Like something that happens every day.

Ilya ends the call after 10 minutes and tucks the phone away like he’s just put something precious back where it belongs.

“Secret.” he reminds gently.

Kyle nods, heart pounding, smiling so hard it almost hurts. “Secret.”

Ilya stands then, careful, like he doesn’t want to jostle anything. He squeezes the kid’s shoulder, solid and reassuring.

“You have very good taste,” he says seriously. “Do not tell him I said that.”

When Ilya finally leaves, the room feels quieter, but not emptier. Kyle lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over.

Later, when the nurse comes in and asks how the visit went, he just smiles and says, “It was really good.”

He doesn’t mention Jane.

Chapter 10: Tour Guide in Rome

Valentina, the tour guide, decides she likes them before she knows why.

They’re standing near the back of the group by the Trevi Fountain, not taking selfies, not jostling for space. Just… watching. One tall, blond, built like one of Bernini’s angrier sculptures, keeps craning his neck, eyes bright, visibly vibrating with excitement. The other stays close, dark-haired, quieter, shoulders squared like he’s guarding something precious without realizing it. He is very focused when he takes pictures, that’s cute.

She clocks them immediately as a unit.

Rome teaches you this skill. You learn to read people fast: honeymooners, history nerds, bored teenagers dragged along by parents. These two don’t fit neatly anywhere, but they keep orbiting each other, gravity obvious even from a distance.

“Okay, everyone,” she says brightly, raising her voice over the water and the crowd. “This is the Trevi Fountain, completed in the 18th century, though the aqueduct it’s connected to dates all the way back to Ancient Rome…”. They both come closer to listen to her.

The tall one lets out a low, reverent wow.

His companion smiles without looking at him.

She talks about the ocean god, about abundance, about the tradition of tossing coins over your shoulder. As she speaks, she watches the tall one lean in, murmuring commentary under his breath, something about how Romans really understood drama. The dark-haired one nods, smirking.

Later during the tour, Valentina mentions gladiators. You always mention gladiators, tourists love them. This type of thing makes the tall one light up fully.

“Warriors,” he says softly, almost to himself, accent thick and musical. “They fight. Together sometimes. Like brothers.”

The other man hums in agreement. “Or partners.”

The guide pretends not to hear, but she absolutely does.

She’s already writing a story for them in her head by the time they walk toward the Pantheon. Maybe they met while traveling. Maybe one convinced the other to come. Maybe this is a celebration, or an escape, or just a rare pocket of time stolen from busy lives. Rome makes romantics of everyone, including professional narrators.

At the Colosseum, the tall one is unbearable. In the best way, of course. He asks questions, gestures wildly, wants to know how the fighters trained, what weapons were favored, and whether they really fought to the death as often as people say. When she talks about endurance, about strength and spectacle, he listens like it’s personal.

“They were strong,” he says, eyes tracing the ancient stone. “But also… watched. Always watched.”

The dark-haired man glances at him then, something quiet and knowing passing between them.

She files that away.

By the time they reach the Bocca della Verità, the sun is slanting low, the group tired but attentive. She gathers them in front of the ancient marble face, worn smooth by centuries of superstition and tourists braver than they look.

“This,” she announces, “is the Mouth of Truth. Legend says that if you put your hand inside and tell a lie, it will bite it off.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the group. Phones come out. She asks for volunteers.

The tall blond man steps forward immediately.

“Wait,” his companion says, catching his wrist gently. “You don’t even know what you’re going to say.”

The tall one grins, wide and reckless. “I am very brave.”

The guide smiles. Of course he is.

He slides his hand into the stone mouth with exaggerated seriousness. The group quiets, waiting. The dark-haired man watches him with an expression so fond it nearly hurts to witness.

The guide opens her mouth to prompt him…but the tall man leans in instead, lowering his voice. He doesn’t project. He doesn’t perform. He murmurs something meant for exactly one person.

“I love you.”

The dark-haired man’s breath catches, just for a second. Then he smiles, soft and stunned and real.

The hand comes back out intact. The group laughs, relieved. Someone catcalls. Someone else makes a joke about legends.

But the guide doesn’t laugh right away.

Because she saw it.

The way it wasn’t a joke. The way the words landed like a promise, like a truth tested and proven by stone older than both of them. The way the dark-haired man leaned in closer afterward, shoulder brushing shoulder, like the world had shifted and they were adjusting to the new center of gravity.

As they walk away, she watches them fall back into step together. The tall one is still talking animatedly, comparing gladiators to modern athletes, to warriors of different kinds. The other listens, occasionally interrupting with dry comments that make the blond one laugh too loudly.

At one point, without thinking, they lace their fingers together.

It’s not a grand gesture. It’s absent-minded. Automatic.

When the tour ends, she thanks everyone and wishes them a good evening. The couple lingers, tossing coins into the fountain like everyone else. The dark-haired one closes his eyes when he throws, murmuring something she doesn’t catch. The other watches him like he’s already home.

Once again, the Mouth of Truth was right, she thinks.

Chapter 11: Phone Repair Technician

The phone repair shop is narrow and loud, all buzzing lights and looping pop music, the air smelling faintly of heated plastic and dust. The repairman is halfway through reassembling a cracked Samsung when the door flies open hard enough to jingle the bell like it’s being attacked.

The guy who rushes in looks like he’s come straight from a workout, dark hair damp at the temples, hoodie half-zipped, eyes wide and laser-focused on the phone clenched in his hand. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look at the price board.

“Hi,” he says, breathless. “I broke my phone.”

The repairman blinks. “Okay.”

“I mean, I dropped it,” the guy continues, words tripping over each other. “It slipped. Out of my hands. Completely accidental. But it still works. I think. It just…” He turns the phone around to show the spiderweb crack blooming across the screen. “…does that.”

The repairman takes it, turning it over with practiced ease. “We can fix the screen.”

“Are you sure?” the guy asks immediately. “Like, really sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can’t lose anything on it.”

The repairman nods, already reaching for a tool. “We don’t erase data for screen repairs.”

The guy exhales, then immediately inhales again, like that wasn’t nearly enough reassurance. “Okay. But, sorry, just to be clear, my photos stay?”

“Yes.”

“And contacts?”

“Yes.”

“All the phone numbers?”

“Yes.”

“There’s one number,” the guy says, leaning closer to the counter, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess to a crime. “It’s saved under Lily. I cannot lose Lily.”

The repairman pauses, looks up. “Your girlfriend?”

The guy freezes. “What? No. I mean…no. She’s…she’s important?”

“Okay.” the repairman says, carefully neutral.

“And,” the guy adds, somehow more stressed, “I just got a picture. Like. Right before I dropped it.”

The repairman’s hands go still. He looks at the cracked screen, then back up at the guy’s face, which has gone faintly pink.

“A picture,” the guy repeats, nodding too fast. “A very… important picture. Private.”

The repairman has been doing this job for eleven years. He has seen wedding photos, cheating evidence, drunk selfies, feet pics, full-on affairs conducted exclusively via WhatsApp. He has learned not to ask follow-up questions unless absolutely necessary.

“Okay,” he says again.

“I just…” The guy gestures helplessly. “I don’t want you to, you know. See it.”

The repairman raises an eyebrow. “I kind of have to turn the phone on.”

The guy swallows. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Totally. That makes sense. I just…if you do see it, could you…”

He stops, clearly realizing there is no dignified way to finish that sentence.

“I won’t comment on anything I see.” the repairman says, deadpan.

The guy nods fervently. “Great. Perfect. Thank you. That’s…thank you.”

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he stays planted at the counter, hands gripping the edge like the phone might try to escape. The repairman turns the screen on to test responsiveness, and the lock screen lights up instantly.

The picture is… unmistakable.

Pretty graphic. Confident. The kind of photo that was meant for exactly one person and no one else. The repairman registers it in the same half-second he’s learned to process everything: shape, lighting, context, oh, okay, moving on.

The phone is nearly dropped again…this time, again, because of its owner.

“Oh my god,” the guy says, lunging forward. “I’m so sorry. I swear I don’t usually… he just…”

He stops himself, presses his lips together, and physically turns his whole body away from the counter, mortified.

The repairman locks the screen smoothly. “You’re good.”

The guy peeks back. “You saw it.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“But,” the repairman adds, “it’s not the first dick pic I’ve ever seen.”

The guy lets out a strangled laugh that turns into a groan. “Kill me.”

“Take a seat,” the repairman says, nodding toward the chairs. “It’ll be about twenty minutes.”

The guy sits, like a runner waiting for the starting gun. He checks the time. He checks the door. He checks his empty hands, like he’s surprised his phone isn’t there.

Every few minutes, he looks up. “It’s still okay, right?”

“Yes.”

“My contacts?”

“Yes.”

“...Lily?”

“Yes.”

The repairman works efficiently, muscle memory guiding him through the process. He doesn’t need to look at the phone much anymore, but when it lights up again during testing, there’s a new notification banner at the top.

Lily: You okay? You stopped replying.

The guy notices at the same time and shoots to his feet. “That’s her.”

The repairman hums noncommittally.

“She…” The guy rubs a hand over his face. “He worries.”

The repairman glances up, sharp enough to catch the correction. The guy doesn’t seem to realize he’s done it. He’s pacing now, muttering under his breath in what sounds like sports terminology maybe.

When the phone is finally done, screen pristine and smooth, the repairman hands it back.

“All set.”

The guy takes it like it’s sacred. He turns it on, swipes through photos, opens contacts, scrolls, relief washing over his face so clearly it’s almost embarrassing to witness.

Then his phone buzzes again. He smiles instantly, the stress evaporating like it was never there in the first place.

“Thank you,” he says, earnest and warm and a little sheepish. “Seriously.”

“No problem.”

After paying, the guy heads for the door, already typing a response with both thumbs.

The bell jingles as the door closes. The repairman goes back to his next phone, shaking his head faintly.

Some people really do carry their hearts in their pockets.

Chapter 12: Kayaking Couple

By the time Emily says, “I told you this was a bad idea,” they are already doomed.

The kayak is angled wrong, half-turned toward the reeds, and James’s paddle is stuck under the surface at an angle that suggests physics has stopped respecting him. Water sloshes lazily over the edge, soaking Emily’s trainers for the third time in ten minutes.

“It’s not a bad idea,” James snaps. “It’s just… too advanced.”

“We googled beginner kayaking,” Emily says. “This is Ottawa, not the Amazon.”

“I didn’t realize trees would be in the water,” he says, yanking uselessly at the paddle.

“They’re called branches, James. Trees have them.”

The kayak drifts another half-meter and then, inevitably, lodges itself directly under a low-hanging tree. A wet, leafy embrace. The branches scrape over their shoulders, snag in Emily’s hair, and James lets out a swear word that definitely comes from his Irish roots.

They stop moving.

The water laps gently against the side of the kayak, deeply unconcerned with their situation.

Emily stares at him. He stares back.

“Okay,” she says tightly. “New plan.”

James pushes at a branch. It pushes back.

“Do not rock the boat,” she warns.

“I’m not rocking…”

The kayak tilts.

Water pours in.

They both yelp, then freeze, clinging to opposite sides like this is a wild animal that might spook.

“I hate this,” Emily says. “I hate lakes. I hate you.”

“You loved the idea this morning!”

“I loved the idea of being one of those couples who do outdoor things and laugh about it later. Not this.”

James opens his mouth to respond, then closes it as a splash of cold water from an ill-placed paddle hits him square in the chest.

“Oh, come on!” he groans.

They sit there, damp, irritated, and increasingly aware that they are not unsticking themselves any time soon.

That’s when Emily notices the laughter.

It’s not close, exactly, but it carries easily over the lake. Bright, unrestrained, unmistakably joyful. She turns her head and spots them about twenty meters away, near the shallower part of the water.

Two men.

Both are in the lake, not in kayaks, waist-deep and completely unconcerned about it. One is tall and blond, broad-shouldered, hair slicked back by water, laughing so hard he has to brace himself with his hands on his knees. The other is smaller, dark-haired, athletic, his t-shirt clinging to him as he splashes water at the first man with obvious intent to escalate.

“Oh my god.” Emily mutters.

James squints. “Are they… fighting?”

As if on cue, the tall blond man scoops up water with both hands and throws it directly at the other’s chest. The dark-haired one yelps and retaliates immediately, shoving him hard enough that the blond man stumbles backward with a dramatic splash.

They both laugh louder.

Emily watches them for a moment, incredulous. “They’re playing.”

James shifts in the kayak, peering around the branch. “Who just… gets in a lake so cold?”

The tall one says something. Emily can’t hear the words, but the tone is exaggerated, mock-offended. The dark-haired says something back, clearly chirping, and then lunges.

They collide, arms tangling, water splashing everywhere.

James fumbles for his paddle, hoping to signal them with it. “Should we… do you think we should call for help? Maybe they know what they’re doing.”

Emily opens her mouth to agree, then pauses.

Because the dark-haired man just wrapped his arms around the other’s waist, not to fight but to steady him. The other man’s hands settle at his hips automatically, fingers splayed, familiar. They stop splashing. Stop moving.

They just stand there, close, foreheads almost touching.

“Oh!” Emily says softly.

The blond man dips his head, says something low. The smaller one smiles, but soft and private. And then they kiss.

It’s not dramatic. No sweeping gestures. Just a brief, easy press of mouths, like this is something they do all the time, like the lake and the world and the soaked tourists stuck in branches simply do not exist.

James lowers his paddle slowly.

“Well.” he says.

They pull apart, laughing again, and immediately resume their chaos. Splashing, shoving, arguing about something that sounds affectionate even from a distance. The blond man tries to dunk the other but he ducks away, triumphant.

Emily feels her shoulders drop.

Her breathing evens out without her noticing.

They’re still stuck. They’re still wet. The kayak is still wedged under a tree like it has chosen violence. But the tight knot of frustration in her chest loosens, replaced by something gentler. Warmer.

“They’re very… in love.” she says quietly.

James nods. “Yeah.”

They watch for another minute. Two minutes. The men eventually wander toward shore and back to their cottage. Still bumping into each other, still talking too close, still oblivious to everything else.

“They didn’t even see us!” James says, faintly amazed.

“No,” Emily agrees. “They really didn’t.”

She looks down at the paddle, then at the branch trapping them.

“Okay,” she says, calmer now. “Let’s do this properly.”

James looks at her. “Together?”

“Yes. Together. You push the branch up, I angle the kayak. Slowly. No panic.”

He nods, mirrors her movements. This time, when the kayak shifts, it’s deliberate. Controlled. The branch slides free with a wet scrape, leaves raining down around them.

They drift forward, unstuck.

Emily lets out a shaky laugh. James whoops softly, triumphant.

They paddle away carefully, deliberately, both a little quieter than before.

Emily glances back once.

The lake looks empty now. Peaceful. Like nothing happened at all.

“Well,” James says after a moment. “Still a bad idea?”

She smiles, tired and damp and oddly content. “No,” she says. “Just… needed better teamwork.”

They paddle on.

Behind them, two men laugh in their cottage, never knowing they accidentally saved a relationship while being ridiculous and in love.

Chapter 13: Street Musician

The violin sounds different this late.

That’s what Aleš always thinks, standing under the flickering streetlamp near the Charles Bridge, fingers numb despite the gloves, breath fogging in the cold. During the day, the music competes with tour groups, laughter, wheels over cobblestone, and coins clinking too loudly. People half-listening while thinking about lunch.

At night, the street listens back.

Prague after midnight belongs to echoes. Footsteps travel farther. Notes linger longer, curling around statues and doorways like they’re reluctant to leave. Aleš draws his bow slowly and steadily, letting the melody stretch, melancholy and familiar, something old enough to feel like it’s always been here.

He plays for himself more than anyone now. It feels nice, lonely but peaceful.

That’s when he notices them.

They come from the far end of the street, not loud, not drunk, not in a hurry. Two silhouettes moving in easy sync. One taller than the other, broad-shouldered, blond hair catching the lamplight like pale gold. The second keeps close, dark-haired, hands tucked into his coat sleeves.

They slow as they approach.

They don’t stop immediately. They don’t talk. They just… drift closer to the sound.

Aleš keeps playing.

The tall one tilts his head, listening hard, eyes half-closed like he’s tasting the music. The other glances at him, then back at Aleš, then back again, a small smile ghosting across his mouth as if he’s amused by how completely absorbed his companion is.

They stop a few meters away.

They don’t clap. They don’t pull out phones. They don’t whisper commentary.

They just stand there.

The violin echoes through the empty street, and for a moment, it feels like Aleš is playing only for them. The sound fills the space between old stone buildings, rebounds softly, and settles into something intimate. The tall one sways almost imperceptibly, weight shifting from heel to toe. The dark-haired man mirrors him without realizing it.

No words.

Just proximity.

Aleš notices the way the dark-haired man leans in when the melody dips lower, shoulder brushing the taller man’s arm. Notices how the taller one adjusts instantly, angling his body so the contact is easier, more deliberate. It’s practiced. Comfortable. Unconscious.

They’ve done this before.

Prague sees a lot of couples. Honeymooners. Weekend escapes. People in love with the idea of being in love somewhere romantic. This feels different. Quieter. Less performed.

Aleš switches songs, letting the tune soften, stretch. Something nostalgic. Something aching.

The dark-haired man exhales slowly, like the sound has found a place to land in his chest.

The taller one glances down at him, says something too quiet to hear. Whatever it is makes the other man smile more widely, his eyes crinkling. He says something back, short and teasing. The taller man laughs, silent but full-bodied, shoulders shaking.

Aleš smiles despite himself.

It’s a good night when the music finds the right people.

They move closer, inch by inch, drawn in without noticing. Heads tilt toward each other now, foreheads almost touching. The taller one’s hand lifts, hesitates for half a second, then settles lightly at the small of the other’s back. Casual. Natural. Like this is the default setting of them.

Aleš’s fingers stumble on a note.

He recovers quickly, but his chest tightens, warm and strange. He doesn’t know them. He’ll never know them. And yet… there’s something deeply satisfying about witnessing this small, unguarded moment, like being trusted with a secret he never asked for.

The song ends.

The echo fades.

Neither man claps.

Instead, the dark-haired one murmurs, “That was beautiful,” so softly it’s almost lost to the night.

Aleš nods in thanks, bow hovering. He should start another song. Something upbeat, maybe. Something familiar that tourists recognize.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the way they’re still standing there, unwilling to break the moment. Maybe it’s the way the taller man is tracing idle patterns against the other’s coat seam with his thumb, absent-minded and affectionate. Maybe it’s the city itself, whispering suggestions.

Without thinking too hard about it, Aleš shifts his grip and begins again.

Slow.

Measured.

A melody that starts low and aching, unmistakable to anyone who knows it, even stripped down to strings alone.

All the things she said by t.A.T.u.

The tune sounds different on the violin. Softer. Sadder. The drama was replaced with longing. The lyrics are gone, but the feeling remains. Wanting something you’re not supposed to want, loving in quiet, loving anyway.

The taller man freezes.

Then he laughs under his breath, startled, delighted. He leans his forehead gently against the other’s temple, murmuring something that makes the dark-haired man groan fondly and shake his head.

They sway now, openly. Slowly. No attempt to hide it.

The dark-haired man’s hand slides into the taller man’s coat pocket. Fingers lace together inside where no one can see. The taller man squeezes back, grounding, steady.

Aleš plays like he’s holding his breath.

He watches their smiles, not wide, not performative. Just real. Private. The kind you give someone who knows you completely and loves you anyway.

When the song ends, silence stretches.

The tall man claps once, softly. The dark-haired man follows, eyes bright.

They step forward together. The taller one reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded bill, then pauses, adds another. The dark-haired man nudges him with his shoulder, murmuring something amused, and slips a coin on top like punctuation.

“Thank you,” the taller man says, accented, warm. “That was… very good.”

Aleš inclines his head. “Thank you for listening.”

The other man smiles at him, quick, kind. “Good night.”

They turn to leave, fingers still linked now, no effort made to hide it. They walk away down the narrow street, their footsteps syncing, laughter low and affectionate, disappearing into Prague’s shadows like they were always meant to.

Aleš lifts his violin again once they’re gone.

He starts another song, letting the notes carry down the cobblestones, following the echo of two people who didn’t say much at all, but somehow said everything.

Chapter 14: Elevator Repaiman

By the time Marek gets the call, the elevator has already been stuck for forty-seven minutes.

He knows this because the hotel manager tells him three separate times on the phone, each with increasing panic, as if repeating the number might make it worse. Luxury hotel. Old building. Elevator with more personality than reliability.

“The two guests inside,” the manager says. “They’re… important.”

Marek hums, loading his tools into the van. “Aren’t they all.”

“They’re…” the manager lowers his voice, like the elevator might be listening. “…famous, big hockey names. Rivals.”
Marek does not care. He does not follow hockey. He knows there is ice. He knows there are sticks. Beyond that, it is all vibes. They could be soulmates or archenemies for all he cares.

He arrives to flashing warning lights and a closed elevator door with a laminated OUT OF ORDER sign taped slightly crooked. And unfortunately, a handful of staff were hovering uselessly near the elevator shaft like concerned pigeons.

“Everyone out,” Marek says, waving off staff with the authority of a man who needs silence or he will lose his mind. Now it’s just him, his toolbox, and the faint hum of a very stuck elevator.

He kneels by the panel and knocks on the elevator door.

“Repair,” he calls out. “I’m here.”

A voice yells back immediately. Deep. Accented. Russian?

“Thank fuck. You took long time to come.”

Another voice cuts in, sharp. “It’s not his fault, be nice!”

Marek sighs and opens the panel.

“Elevator’s been stuck about… fifty minutes,” he says loudly. “You both okay in there?”

“Yes,” the deep voice says quickly.

“We’re fine!” the other says at the exact same time.

Marek nods to himself.

He starts working, the hum of the machinery filling the space. Through the metal, the voices drift out in fragments, muffled, distorted, but unmistakably heated.

“This is your fault.”

“Why is it my fault?”

“You leaned on the button!”

“You were already pressing it!”

Marek tightens a screw.

Okay. Fighting. Great.

He works faster.

There’s another burst of sound, too close together, too intense.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting.”

“You’re smiling.”

Then something sharper. A muffled sound that might be a cry.

Marek freezes, wrench halfway lifted. Did he just hit him?

“…Everything okay in there?” he calls, suddenly very invested.

A pause.

Then the deep voice again, breathless but cheerful. “Yes. Totally.”

The other voice mutters something too low to hear, but the tone is absolutely not calm.

Marek exhales through his nose and goes back to work.

He does not need to know.

He does not want to know.

The voices continue, overlapping, bouncing off each other like this is some kind of very intense verbal sport.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it!”

“Do not say that right now.”

There’s a soft thud.

Then laughter. Not angry laughter. Real laughter. Warm. Close.

Marek grimaces.

This does not sound like rivals.

“I am almost done,” he announces loudly, though no one asked.

Inside the elevator, something like scrambling happens.

“Wait!”

“Hold on!”

“Your elbow…”

Marek flips the final switch.

The elevator shudders. Both men yelp.

“Hey!”

“блядь! Warn us!

“Sorry,” Marek mutters automatically, even though it’s absolutely not his fault. And he is not sorry at all.

The system hums back to life.

He straightens, wipes his hands on his pants, and presses the call button.

The doors slide open.

Marek’s professional neutrality lasts exactly half a second.

They were not fighting.

They are… clearly dishevelled.

The smaller, dark-haired man stands slightly in front, cheeks flushed, hair thoroughly ruined like someone has been running fingers through it repeatedly. His lips are pink. Puffy. Suspiciously so.

Behind him, the taller blond man looks worse.

His shirt is untucked. His jacket is crooked. His mouth is swollen enough that Marek notices immediately, against his will.

And then…

Marek’s eyes drop.

His jeans. The fly is open.

Wide open.

Marek looks at the ceiling.

“Elevator’s operational now,” he says briskly. “You’re free to go.”

“Thank you,” the blond says brightly, completely unaware. “Very good service.”

The dark-haired man mutters, “I am never taking elevators with you again.”

They step out together, shoulders brushing, voices dropping instinctively as they walk away down the hall.

Marek waits until their footsteps fade.

Then he sits down on his toolbox and stares at the closed elevator doors.

“…Those were not rivals,” Marek says flatly to no one.

He packs up slowly and removes the OUT OF ORDER sign, deeply aware that whatever just happened in that elevator is none of his business and yet will haunt him forever.

Chapter 15: Nurse

Mary had been on shift long enough to know when something was about to go wrong.

It usually started with a look.

In this case, it started with the look on the man’s face when he gave his name at the desk.

“Ilya Rozanov.” he said, accent unmistakable, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a hit.

She’d glanced at the chart, then back up at him. Recognition sparked because even if she didn’t follow hockey closely, you couldn’t work trauma during playoff season and not learn the names. Captain. Star player. The opposing team.

She should have hesitated.

Instead, she felt that stupid, reflexive flutter of admiration at how he stood there, clearly exhausted, clearly worried. He is asking very politely about the condition of the man his team had injured the night before.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said, too quickly. “The hit. I just wanted to make sure he’s all right.”

Sportsmanship, she thought. Rare. She liked that.

She gave him the room number.

Only after did another nurse lean over and murmur, “You know they’re rivals, right?”

That was when the knot formed.

So Mary checked on them.

At first, everything looked fine. Through the narrow window in the door, she saw Shane Hollander propped up in bed, sling visible, face pale but alert. The other man stood beside him, hands carefully at his sides, posture stiff like he was afraid to take up too much space.

They talked.

No raised voices. No sudden movements.

Still, she checked again five minutes later.

They were closer now.

Rozanov had nudged the door nearly closed. Not fully. Just enough that the room felt private. Her stomach flipped. That was… not ideal.

She lingered at the station, chart half-finished, eyes drifting back to that window.

Inside, Shane smiled at something Rozanov said. Not a public smile. A soft one. The kind that pulled at one side of his mouth like it surprised him.

Rozanov lifted a hand.

The nurse held her breath. She should start to run for help, right?

He touched Shane’s face.

Not aggressively, she thought. Not even boldly. Just fingers brushing his cheek, slow and reverent, like he was reassuring himself that Shane was solid, warm, and there.

“Oh no,” Mary whispered.

This was worse than a fight.

She imagined her asshole of a Nurse Manager’s face if she walked by and saw this. Two high-profile athletes. Opposing teams. One concussed. Hands where hands should absolutely not be.

She moved closer to the door, ready to intervene if voices rose, if tempers flared…

Instead, she saw Shane reach up and take Rozanov’s hand.

Their fingers tangled.

The nurse froze.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t do anything overt. They just… stayed like that. Foreheads almost touching. Rozanov leaned in slightly, his thumb brushing over Shane’s knuckles like he was grounding himself.

Shane said something. She couldn’t hear it through the door but whatever it was made Rozanov laugh. A quiet, surprised sound, like it had slipped out without permission.

Mary felt her panic drain away, replaced by something warm and uncomfortable.

Oh.

She checked again a few minutes later, because professionalism demanded vigilance and because curiosity is a powerful force.

They were still holding hands.

Shane looked tired now, eyes fluttering. Rozanov had shifted closer to the bed, voice low, expression openly wrecked. The kind of look people get when they’ve scared themselves half to death imagining worst-case scenarios.

The nurse glanced down at the chart.

Concussion. Fractured collarbone. It must have been terrible to witness.

When she saw the Nurse Manager rounding the corner, she straightened instantly, smile ready, nurse face firmly in place, and rushed toward the hospital room.

Rozanov jumped back like he’d been caught doing something criminal when she opened the door.

Shane released his hand just as fast.

Mary stepped in, light and teasing on purpose. “Uh-oh,” she said. “You’re not trying to smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr. Rozanov?”

The relief in both their faces was… telling.

“No,” Rozanov said quickly. “I was just leaving.”

Good, she thought. Probably for the best.

They did the whole polite routine. Thank you. Get well soon. Professional voices layered carefully over something far more fragile.

Rozanov left without looking back.

Afterward, as she adjusted Shane’s IV and checked his vitals, she caught him smiling faintly at nothing.

She paused at the door before leaving, glancing once more at the empty space beside his bed.

Rivals, her ass.

Later, when another nurse asked if there’d been trouble with the opposing captain, she shook her head.

“No,” Mary said. “Just… sportsmanship.”

Chapter 16: Dog Shelter Volunteer

Chapter Notes

Well, for this POV I'm slightly modifying the story from the book “The Long Game” (sorry Harris!)

Ben, a volunteer at the Ottawa Dog Shelter for the past 8 years, had learned to clock people within thirty seconds of them entering the shelter.

The nervous ones hovered near the door.

The overconfident ones went straight for the biggest dog.

The “I’m just looking” ones lied.

The tall man with the Russian accent sprinted inside like he’d been released into open ice.

“Oh my god,” he said, crouching immediately to greet a wagging blur of fur. “Hello! Hello! You are very beautiful. Yes, you are.”

Ben blinked. He knows this man. He just didn’t expect the new captain of the Centaur to be so… friendly.

Behind him came another man, visibly trying not to look like he was here on purpose. He stopped just inside the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the room with polite restraint.

“I'm just accompanying him, not to adopt.” he said to no one in particular.

Ben recognized him as Shane Hollander. It took him a minute before remembering that they were friends now, with their Irina Foundation and everything. Cool.

Rozanov was still on the floor.

Within five minutes, Ben knew two things for certain:

• Ilya Rozanov was absolutely getting a dog today.
• Shane Hollander was lying.

“Ilya,” Hollander said patiently, as Rozanov bounced from kennel to kennel like a kid in a candy store, “remember what we talked about. Energy levels.”

“Yes, yes,” Rozanov replied, currently attempting to get kissed by a dog twice his size. “This one has great energy.”

“That’s because he’s six months old and thinks your face is a chew toy.”

The volunteer smiled to himself and finally approached with a clipboard. “Hi! You must be Mr. Rozanov.”

Rozanov popped up instantly. “Yes! That is me. Captain Rozanov.” He beamed. “This is my friend.”

The friend nodded. “Shane.”

“Friend,” the volunteer repeated, neutrally.

Ben had met a lot of “friends.”

Rozanov launched into questions immediately. What kind of dog would be best in a house? How much exercise was too much? Did dogs like snow? Was it bad if he traveled sometimes? Would the dog be mad?

Hollander hovered nearby, interjecting with alarming preparedness.

“Actually,” he said, “long-haired dogs can do fine in colder climates, but grooming’s important. And consistency with feeding times helps with anxiety. Also, grain-free food is kind of controversial now.”

Ben and Rozanov stared at him. “You said you didn’t research.”

“I didn’t,” Hollander said quickly. “I just… skimmed. A lot.”

“I’m just helping,” he added to Ben.

They moved through the shelter like this: Rozanov exuberant, Hollander orbiting. Rozanov played tug-of-war. Hollander checked tags. Rozanov got distracted by puppies. Hollander reminded him gently that puppies were a lifestyle choice.

“Ilya,” Hollander said, as Rozanov cooed at a trembling little terrier, “you’re on the road a lot. Maybe an adult dog would be better.”

Rozanov sighed dramatically. “You are ruining my dreams.”

“I’m protecting your furniture.”

Eventually, Rozanov stopped short.

He crouched slowly in front of a medium-sized mutt with long, slightly ridiculous fur and one ear that never quite committed to standing up. She sat calmly, watching him with soft, curious eyes.

“Oh,” he breathed.

The volunteer recognized that tone.

“That’s Anya,” he said. “She’s three. Very gentle. Came in from a foster situation.”

Rozanov held out his hand. Anya sniffed it, then leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his knee.

He made a sound that was genuinely embarrassing.

“This is her,” he said immediately. “This is my dog.”

Hollander stepped closer. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because ten minutes ago…”

“Yes.”

Hollander knelt down, cautious, letting Anya decide. She glanced at him, then without hesitation, stood up, walked the two steps over, and sat down squarely against his leg.

Pressed. Settled. Like she’d found the spot.

Hollander froze.

The volunteer absolutely did not smile.

“Well,” Hollander said quietly. “Okay then.”

Rozanov looked between them, eyes wide. “She likes you!”

“She’s just leaning.”

Anya sighed and put her head on Hollander’s knee.

The volunteer cleared her throat. “She does that when she feels safe.”

Hollander swallowed.

“Ilya,” he said, voice carefully even, “I’m still not choosing.”

“I know Shane,” Rozanov said happily. “You are just… chosen!”

The paperwork took a while.

Rozanov filled out every line meticulously, asking questions about vet recommendations and training classes and what kind of toys were best for dogs who liked to chew but not destroy, exactly.

Hollander hovered over his shoulder the entire time.

“You should get two bowls,” he said. “One for water, one for food. Stainless steel’s better.”

“I will get three,” Rozanov said solemnly. “Just to be sure.”

Ben slid the final form across the desk. “Owner’s signature here.”

Rozanov signed.

One owner.

Anya, meanwhile, had refused to move from Hollander’s side.

When it was time to leave, Rozanov clipped on the leash. Anya stood. Took one step. Then stopped.

She looked back at Hollander.

He sighed, already doomed, and held out his hand.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I’m coming.”

The volunteer watched them go: Rozanov glowing, Hollander pretending this was not his dog, Anya walking perfectly between them like she’d planned it all along.

One owner on paper.

Absolutely not in practice.

Ben updated the shelter log later that evening.

Adoption successful. The dog bonded immediately.

Then, after a pause, he added:

…with both of them.

Some dogs just know.

Chapter 17: Russian Teacher

Chapter Notes

I don't speak Russian so my translations are 100% from Google Translate... Don't hesitate to tell me if it's completely wrong and I will correct it!
You can hover over Russian text for translations or see the End Notes.

Madame Petrova does not usually remember students’ names before the first month.

She has been teaching Russian in Montreal for nearly twenty years. Evening classes, afternoon intensives, bored university students fulfilling language credits, overly confident men who want to impress their girlfriends, and old people wanting to reconnect with their roots. Names blur. Faces blur. Motivation rarely does.

So she notices Shane Hollander immediately.

He is always early. Or, when he isn’t, he is barely late. He is slipping through the door at 1:03 p.m., breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold or exertion, apologizing softly under his breath as if three minutes might be a moral failure.

“Sorry,” he says the first time, dropping into his chair with the careful politeness of someone trying to take less space. “Practice ran long.”

Practice. Not work. Not class. Practice.

She nods, marks him present, and moves on.

It becomes a pattern.

Shane arrives straight from hockey practice. She learns this without him ever explicitly saying it. His hair still damp, sweatshirt pulled on hastily, protein bar sometimes clutched in one hand because he clearly didn’t have time to eat properly. He never complains. Never asks for exceptions. He simply opens his notebook and focuses like his life depends on Cyrillic grammar.

Madame Petrova is strict, but she is not blind.

She notices how his hands sometimes shake slightly when his blood sugar is clearly low. How he rubs at his neck when he’s tired. How he listens with absolute seriousness, brow furrowed, like every verb conjugation is a puzzle he must solve correctly or the world will end.

He does all the exercises.

All of them.

When the group chat lights up with practice prompts, voice notes, sentence construction, pronunciation drills, Shane responds even when he’s clearly on the road. The background noise changes: airports, hotel rooms, muffled team buses. He submits recordings from other cities. Other time zones.

Sometimes, he sends an apology message because he’ll miss class due to a match out of town.

I’ll do the exercises anyway, he adds, as if that needs to be said.

He always does.

In class, he sits slightly apart from the others. There are mostly women, professionals, graduate students, one retired couple who insist on holding hands through every lesson. Shane is unfailingly polite. Soft-spoken. Shy in a way that isn’t insecurity so much as carefulness.

When paired for dialogue practice, he blushes furiously if he has to role-play flirting.

“I’m sorry,” he says once, laughing nervously. “I’m bad at this.”

The women adore him.

Not in a predatory way. In a gentle, protective way. They correct his pronunciation kindly. They cheer quietly when he nails a difficult sentence. Someone once brings extra snacks and slides them toward him without comment.

Madame Petrova pretends not to see any of this.

She is a professional.

Still.

She notices.

Shane’s Russian improves rapidly. His pronunciation is careful and precise, but there’s something else underneath: urgency. Not academic curiosity. Not travel plans. This is not someone learning for fun.

This is someone learning for someone.

The thought lodges in her mind like a pebble in a shoe.

The moment of confirmation comes late one afternoon, near the end of class.

The students have left, chairs scraped back, notebooks and pens packed away. Shane lingers, as he sometimes does, finishing a written exercise on the shared computer at the front of the room. He thanks her, polite as ever, then rushes out with a wave, already checking his phone.

Madame Petrova goes to shut down the computer.

She does not mean to snoop.

But the browser is still open.

And the search history is… revealing.

She reads.

Once.

Twice.

Then very carefully, a third time.

“как сказать ‘ты невероятно красив’ по-русски ”

“Кокетливые имена для мужчины на русском языке ”

“Фразы для флирта с ним на русском ”

Flirty Russian phrases. For him.

Not her. Him.

Madame Petrova closes her eyes briefly.

Ah. There it is.

The missing piece slots into place with the quiet certainty of grammar finally clicking.

She does not feel surprised. She feels… fondness.

She deletes the history without hesitation. Clears the cache. Shuts down the browser like nothing ever happened.

Some things are not meant to be exposed under fluorescent classroom lights.

Some things are private.

She gathers her bag, pauses, then hesitates.

She reopens the computer.

Creates a new document.

Types a short list.

Nothing explicit. Nothing inappropriate. Just… affectionate. Warm. The kind of phrases language textbooks never bother to teach.

“Ты мне очень дорог ”

“Ты невероятно красив ”

“Я скучаю по тебе ”

“Я хочу провести свою жизнь с тобой ”

“Я думаю о тебе ”

“я тебя люблю ”

She saves the document under a generic name: Practice – Expressions.

If anyone asks, she will say it’s for Valentine’s Day. Useful vocabulary.

Which is not a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

The following week, Shane arrives exactly on time, hair still damp, cheeks pink from the cold. He looks tired. Focused. Determined.

She announces the new exercise casually.

“Today, we’ll practice affectionate expressions,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “Very common. Very natural. Useful.”

Shane freezes.

Just for half a second.

Then his ears turn red.

Madame Petrova pretends not to notice.

She listens as he reads aloud, voice careful, reverent, like he’s holding something fragile.

His pronunciation is excellent.

When he finishes, he exhales like he’s just completed a marathon.

“Very good,” she says, genuinely. “Very natural.”

He smiles, small, grateful, glowing in a way that has nothing to do with grammar.

As class ends, Shane thanks her, as always.

“See you next week!” he says.

“I expect so.” she replies.

After he leaves, Madame Petrova sits for a moment in the quiet classroom.

She has taught many students.

She knows that people learn them for power, for work, for fun.

But sometimes, they learn for love.

She hopes that this love is worth the effort.

Judging by Shane Hollander’s verb conjugations?

It really is.

Chapter End Notes

“как сказать ‘ты невероятно красив’ по-русски ” How to say 'you are incredibly handsome' in Russian
“Кокетливые имена для мужчины на русском языке ” Flirty names for men in Russian
“флирт фразы русский для него ” Flirting phrases in Russian for him
“Ты мне очень дорог ” You are very dear to me
“Ты невероятно красив ” You are incredibly beautiful
“Я скучаю по тебе ” I miss you
“Я хочу провести свою жизнь с тобой.” I want to spend my life with you
“Я думаю о тебе ” I'm thinking about you
“я тебя люблю ” I love you

Chapter 18: Museum Security Guard

By the fifth time the two men loop through the same corridor without looking at a single painting, Jean-Pierre is no longer merely suspicious.

He is convinced.

They are thieves.

Not amateurs. Professionals.

Organized crime.

The kind that steals national treasures and then vanishes, leaving security guards like Jean-Pierre with migraines and new mandatory training.

He’s been a security guard at the Louvre for eleven years. He knows patterns. He knows body language. He knows that anyone who walks past Delacroix without even pretending to care is either deeply uncultured… or planning a theft. He has seen everything: tourists crying in front of the Mona Lisa, teenagers licking statues, a man attempting to “accidentally” pocket a Roman coin... It was not Roman, it was from the gift shop.

And, of course, the Incident. Capital I. The theft that made headlines and permanently rewired Jean-Pierre’s brain and all of France. The terrible day of October 19th, 2025.

So when two men keep circling rooms like they’re mapping escape routes, Jean-Pierre notices.

The blond one is the worst offender. Tall. Broad. Vibrating with an energy that does not belong in a museum. He moves like a golden retriever given espresso, hands gesturing wildly as he whispers in what is unmistakably Russian, eyes bright, body leaning forward like he might sprint at any moment.

The other man, dark-haired, athletic and serious, keeps tugging him back by the sleeve. He looks around constantly, not at the art, but at corners. Cameras. Guards.

Classic.

Jean-Pierre narrows his eyes.

They drift past the Winged Victory without stopping. Bypass an entire room of Renaissance masterpieces. Whisper. Duck into a darker corner near a pillar. Re-emerge. Loop back.

“Marking patrols.” Jean-Pierre mutters to himself.

The blond man laughs too loudly, immediately clapping a hand over his mouth when the dark-haired one glares at him.

“Tentative of distraction.” Jean-Pierre decides grimly.

They double back. Split for exactly three seconds before reuniting near a column.

His jaw tightens.

“These are pros.” he whispers.

They pause near a large painting. Jean-Pierre leans in, expecting admiration.

The blond doesn’t even glance at it.

Instead, he murmurs something in a thick Russian accent, eyes locked on the other man’s face.

The dark-haired man snorts quietly. Says something sharp, clearly sarcastic.

Jean-Pierre inches closer, straining to hear.

“…no, is too obvious…”

“…you always say that…”

“…we must be careful…”

Jean-Pierre nearly radios it in right there.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Because then they do something new... They duck into a darker side gallery.

Jean-Pierre swears under his breath.

This is exactly how it started last time. Wandering. Whispering. Disappearing into blind spots. Jean-Pierre still has nightmares about the Incident. About the frantic calls. About the headline that included the words “unprecedented” and “embarrassing oversight.”

He follows them through three more rooms, heart pounding.

They keep finding shadowy corners. Alcoves. Blind spots. At one point, the blond literally positions himself so his body blocks the other from view of a camera.

“Olala,” Jean-Pierre whispers. “I see you.”

He radios his colleague.

“I have two potential suspects,” he murmurs. “Tall blond. One dark-haired. Coordinated movement. Very suspicious.”

There’s a pause.

His colleague sighs. “Are they touching the art?”

“No,” Jean-Pierre says. “That’s the problem. They are pros!”

Another pause.

“…Jean-Pierre, are you sure they’re not just…”

“They passed the Mona Lisa without stopping,” Jean-Pierre snaps. “No one does that.”

That finally convinces them.

He watches as the two men slip behind a massive sculpture.

Jean-Pierre’s heart pounds.

This is it.

He rounds the corner quickly, authoritative voice ready.

“Messieurs, stop…”

He is the one who stops.

They are not stealing.

They are very clearly kissing.

Dramatically. Very heated. Full French-kissing. The blond has his hands braced on either side of the dark-haired man’s head, touching the priceless statue. The dark-haired man’s fingers are curled in the fabric of the blond’s jacket, one foot on the base of the PRICELESS statue.

They freeze.

All three of them.

“Oh...” Jean-Pierre says faintly.

The blond pulls back instantly, eyes wide. “Ah sorry! Museum. Very beautiful museum. We…uh…”

“We weren’t doing anything illegal,” the dark-haired one says quickly, face bright red and looking mortified. “I mean…obviously we were doing something, but…”

Jean-Pierre raises a hand.

“No kissing in the galleries.” he says weakly, because that is the rule, technically, even if no one ever enforces it.

“Yes,” the blond nods vigorously. “Of course. Very sorry. We respect art. And… guards. And French people.”

The dark-haired man elbows him.

Jean-Pierre pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Passports,” he says. “Please.”

They hand them over immediately.

Jean-Pierre checks them carefully. Canadian. Russian. Ordinary passports. No red flags.

He hands them back, clears his throat.

Jean-Pierre exhales, embarrassment replacing adrenaline.

“I thought you were… planning something,” he admits.

The blond beams. “Yes! Planning. Very romantic planning.”

“...Please… just admire the art,” he says.

“We will,” the dark-haired man promises sincerely.

The blond nods. “Art is good. You are doing excellent job.”

They walk away hand-in-hand, whispering again, this time actually stopping in front of a painting. The blond gestures excitedly. The dark-haired man listens, smiling despite himself.

Jean-Pierre watches them disappear into the next room.

Another crisis defused.

Another theft that wasn’t.

He makes a note in his log anyway.

Two visitors. Suspicious behavior. Outcome: kissing. No crime committed.

The Louvre, he thinks, is exhausting.

And apparently very romantic.

“Next time,” he mutters, “I am transferring to the gift shop.”

Chapter 19: Tattoo Artist

Erick has been tattooing Ilya Rozanov for years.

Long enough to know that his pain tolerance is absurd and that he lies about it anyway. Long enough to recognize the sound of his laugh through the door before he even knocks. Long enough to know that if Ilya says, “Is nothing, barely feel,” it means it absolutely hurts and he is enjoying pretending it doesn’t.

Their first appointment together was almost a decade ago.

Ilya had still been new to the league then, all sharp edges and nervous energy, shoulders too tense, eyes too watchful. He’d booked under a fake name and still flinched every time someone walked past the shop window. He wanted work done on his chest, something big, something old.

“A bear,” he’d said, tapping his sternum. “I already have it. From Russia. But is… how you say… prison-style?”

Erick had raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a bear,” Ilya had insisted. “But ugly.”

They’d laughed. Erick had fixed it, softened the lines, given it weight and motion. When it was done, Ilya had looked at himself in the mirror like he was seeing an old friend finally recognized properly.

After that, he kept coming back.

The wrist had been next. 81, simple, clean, right over the pulse point.

“My number,” Ilya had said, unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” Erick had replied dryly. “Everyone in Boston knows that.”

There was a key after. Small, detailed. The number 1221 is etched into the key.

“What does it open?” Erick had asked.

Ilya had smiled, soft and unreadable. “Something important.”

Erick hadn’t pushed.

There was one for Svetlana, his best friend. That one surprised him. A small fox with bright eyes, on his shoulder.

“She is like protective and loyal creature,” Ilya had said quietly. “And very smart.”

Erick had nodded and let the silence sit.

Then the ribs. That one had taken a while.

“I want bird,” Ilya had explained, gesturing vaguely. “From Canada. Big lake bird. Sounds like wolf.”

Erick had blinked. “You want… a wolf-bird.”

“Yes!” Ilya had said brightly.

Ilya showed him a picture of a loon, and Erick had laughed so hard he’d nearly had to reschedule the session. Ilya had laughed too, and later admitted the sound had scared the hell out of him the first time he’d heard it echo across a lake at night.

And then Saint Olga, on his upper arm. Solid. Unmovable. A woman carved in faith and iron, gaze steady, sword at rest but ready.

“My mom loved her,” Ilya had said. “Strong woman. Like her.”

That one had hurt. Ilya hadn’t joked through it.

Through the years, Erick watched him change.

The nervous energy settled. The sharpness softened. He kept showing up even after moving to Ottawa, sometimes lingering on his phone between stencils, smiling softly at his texts.

So when Ilya came in one afternoon and asked for something new, something small, something he wanted perfect, Erick didn’t ask why.

“Coordinates,” Ilya said.

“Anywhere special?”

“Yes.”

“That's all you’re giving me?”

Ilya grinned. “Is enough.”

They placed it on his chest, just to the left, tucked close to the heart. The numbers were clean and exact:

50°27′1″N 104°38′15″W

Ilya sat through it like he always did, jaw tight, jokes terrible, eyes bright with something Erick didn’t try to name. When it was finished, he didn’t say much. Just looked at it in the mirror, pressed his palm flat over it for a moment, and nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Very good.”

A few weeks later, Shane Hollander walked into the Boston shop.

Erick recognized him instantly. Anyone who loves hockey knows the guy. From the way his shoulders held a quiet tension, it was his first time in a tattoo shop. He was polite to the point of pain. Apologized for everything. Sat exactly where he was told.

“I’d like a tattoo of coordinates,” Hollander said, voice careful. “Over my heart.”

Erick smiled, just a little. “All right.”

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t ask why he didn’t go to a Montreal tattoo artist. Didn't ask why it was the same one that his biggest rival.

Hollander’s pain tolerance was different. Not worse, just quieter. He didn’t joke. He didn’t complain. He stared at the wall and breathed like he was counting something under his breath. When it was done, he looked at it quickly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to linger.

“Thank you.” he said. Sincere. Soft.

After Shane Hollander left, the shop was quiet.

Erick cleaned his station, wiped down the chair, and tossed the stencil into the bin. Then, almost without thinking, he pulled out his phone and typed the coordinates into a map.

The pin dropped immediately.

Brandt Centre. Regina, Saskatchewan.

Erick leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen.

He didn’t know much about hockey. But he knew enough to understand what that meant. First games. First meetings. The beginning of something great.

He locked his phone, stood up, and turned off the lights.

Tattoos are about trust, and some stories don’t need words.

Chapter 20: Telemarketer

By the time Patricia hits Dial on her computer screen, she is already dead inside.

She straightens the script on her desk, clears her throat into a headset that smells faintly of burnt coffee and despair, and puts on her Voice. The one that says trustworthy, friendly, I promise this call will not ruin your life even though it absolutely could.

“Hello! My name is Patricia, and I’m calling on behalf of Insurance For Everyone…”

She barely gets three sentences in before she braces herself for the usual outcomes: hang-up, swearing, fake death noises, or someone shouting “TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST” like she personally chose their numbers.

Instead, the man on the other end says, politely, “Oh…hi. Um. I don’t think I need insurance right now, but thank you.”

That alone is unusual.

Most people don’t interrupt her with kindness. They interrupt her with rage.

“That’s totally okay,” Patricia says, launching into the rest of the script anyway because muscle memory is relentless. “If you’ll just allow me thirty seconds…”

He allows her thirty seconds.

He allows her a full minute.

He allows her the entire explanation, listens quietly, even hums in acknowledgment once.

Patricia blinks at her screen. She checks the name again. Shane. Not a robot.

He sounds… nice?

Suspiciously nice.

People do not thank her. They do not let her finish the disclaimer. They do not apologize for not wanting supplemental coverage.

She finishes the pitch anyway, because what else is she going to do, not finish it? When she finally wraps up, he says, “Thank you for explaining everything.”

“Well,” she is genuinely flustered now, “thank you for your time. I hope you have a great day.”

“You too,” Shane says warmly. “Sorry and good luck with your calls.”

Her heart cracks just a little.

They say goodbye.

The call does not disconnect.

Patricia is about to click End herself when she hears it.

A second voice. Close. Warm. Deep.

With a very thick Russian accent.

“You are too nice, baby.”

Patricia freezes.

She does not hang up.

This is not her fault anymore. This is destiny.

“I hate those calls,” Shane groans mildly.

“You were very polite,” the Russian voice says approvingly. “Too polite.”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

A soft laugh. Close. Intimate.

“You apologized when she said goodbye,” the Russian points out.

“…I did not.”

“You said, ‘Sorry, good luck.’”

There’s a pause.

“Oh,” Shane admits. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Patricia stares at her desk plant like it might offer guidance.

She should disconnect. She knows this. This is private. This is unethical.

But this is not in the training manual.

“I was just being polite,” Shane says.

“Yes,” the other man replies fondly. “Exactly my point.”

She should hang up. Instead, she quietly slides her mouse away from the button and listens like the gossip lover that she is.

“I hate these calls,” Shane mutters. “But she was just doing her job.”

Patricia’s soul leaves her body.

“Oh no,” the Russian voice says. “You listened to whole thing?”

“…Yes.”

“Shane.”

“What?”

“You are so boring...”

Patricia adjusts her headset.

She tells herself she’s staying on the line to make sure it disconnects properly. For quality assurance. For work reasons. For science. For Mankind. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” the Russian says. “You could hang up.”

“I know. I just didn’t want to be rude.”

Then, very softly “You are never rude.”

Patricia presses her lips together. That's sooo cute.

This call has already made her day better than the last six weeks combined.

There’s a faint clink, like a glass being set down.

“Did you eat?” the Russian asks.

“After practice,” Shane says. “Kind of.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s a partial answer.”

Patricia bites her knuckle.

She can picture them without even trying: one sprawled, relaxed, teasing and the other earnest, a little tired, probably rubbing at his neck. She doesn’t know why she’s so sure of that, but she is.

"I'm not that hungry for food right now,” Shane says suddenly.

Patricia’s heart leaps into her throat.

“Yes I can see that,” the Russian whispered, "I'm sure I can have something for you…”

Patricia goes very still.

“You will need to come closer…” Shane says, sounding out of breath.

There’s a beat.

Then a rustle, fabric, maybe? The sound of someone shifting closer.

Patricia lets out a near silent squeak.

She is going to tell everyone about this.

There’s another pause, heavier now. Closer.

She can hear breathing, slightly labored, not graphic, just there, shared air and proximity.

Patricia squeezes her eyes shut.

There’s a sound, soft, involuntary, from the Russian guy. A deep moan. Just enough to make Patricia sit bolt upright.

Her finger hovers over the End Call button.

She does not move. But then she heard a murmur.

“You forgot to hang up you know…” the Russian says softly.

A pause.

Then a frantic sound of someone looking for the phone.

“Not again!” Shane says embarrassed.

She slams the button so fast she nearly breaks her mouse.

The line goes dead.

Patricia rips her headset off and stares into the middle distance.

Her screen blinks: Call completed.

She exhales, long and shaky, then starts laughing. Quiet at first. Then harder.

She wipes at her eyes, still smiling.

Insurance sales are a nightmare. Her quota is impossible. Her coffee is cold. Her supervisor smells fear.

But for three beautiful, unhinged minutes, she got to overhear two people being ridiculously, unmistakably in love.

Worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Chapter 21: Tow Trucker Driver

By the time Tom gets the call, it’s nearly midnight, and the rain has just started to come down. Not enough to be dramatic, just enough to be reallyannoying.

Roadside assistance. Highway 93. Stretch leading toward the Rockies.

“Car won’t start,” dispatch says. “Two occupants. No injuries.”

Tom exhales, grabs his jacket, and pulls the truck onto the road. Nights like this usually go one of two ways: people angry at the universe, or people already halfway to tears. He’s learned to brace himself for both.

The Rockies loom darker than usual, jagged silhouettes against a low sky. The rain turns the asphalt slick and reflective. It’s quiet out here. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes engines sound lonely when they die.

He spots them before he spots the car.

Two men, sitting on the curb a few meters from a Jeep Cherokee. They’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, knees angled inward, sharing one jacket draped awkwardly around both of them. One has his head tipped slightly toward the other, hair damp at the edges. The other’s arm is slung around his back, hand tucked under the jacket like it belongs there.

They’re talking softly. Laughing, just a little.

Tom slows, blinks, then pulls in behind the car.

No frantic waving. No pacing. No furious kicking of tires.

Well. That’s new.

He gets out, rain tapping against his hood, and clears his throat. “Evening.”

Both men look up at once.

“Hello, glad to see you!” the taller one says immediately, smiling like this is a pleasant surprise instead of a breakdown in the middle of nowhere. He has a faint accent and a warmth in his eyes that doesn’t dim when the rain picks up.

“Hey,” the other adds, polite and calm. Dark-haired. Serious face, softened by the way he leans just a bit closer to the man beside him when he moves.

Tom nods toward the car. “You the unlucky ones?”

“Yes,” the taller man says cheerfully. “She is… very done with tonight.”

Tom snorts despite himself. “Mind if I take a look?”

They stand together, still sharing the jacket as they rise, reluctant to separate even for a second. The rain starts coming down harder now, enough to soak into denim.

“I can grab another jacket from the trunk,” the dark-haired man offers.

“No,” the other says quickly. “Is fine. We are good.”

And somehow, standing there in the rain, they really are.

Tom pops the hood, does the routine. Dead battery. Nothing dramatic. Easy fix. As he works, he glances back at them from time to time.

They’ve sat back down on the curb.

Still close. Still talking quietly. The rain darkens their hair, beads on their lashes. At one point, the dark-haired man laughs and bumps his shoulder into the other’s, like a private joke escaped.

Tom feels something in his chest loosen.

Usually when he shows up, people are swearing at the sky. Blaming each other. Blaming the car. Blaming him, sometimes, like he personally sabotaged their alternator. He’s had couples screaming, families snapping, lone drivers shaking with stress.

These two just… adjusted the jacket and leaned closer.

When the rain picks up again, they both laugh, soft, disbelieving, and the taller one ducks his head, forehead brushing the other’s temple. The moment feels unguarded, like they forgot they weren’t alone.

Tom looks back to the engine before he stares too long.

“Alright,” he calls after a few minutes. “Battery’s shot. I can tow you to the nearest town, or we can jump it and see if she holds.”

The dark-haired man glances up. “What do you think?”

The taller one shrugs easily. “I trust you.”

That look, the way it’s accepted without question, makes Tom’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Tow’s safer,” Tom says gruffly. “Weather’s not getting nicer.”

“Tow it is then!” the taller man agrees instantly.

They climb into the truck cab while Tom secures the car. When he opens the passenger door, he pauses.

They’ve sat down pressed together again, knees touching, shoulders aligned, even though there’s plenty of space now. The dark-haired man’s hand rests casually on the other’s thigh, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.

They look up, startled, like teenagers caught whispering in class.

“Sorry,” the dark-haired one says. “Is this okay?”

Tom waves a hand. “Sit however you want. Long night.”

“Thank you,” the taller man says sincerely. “For coming.”

They buckle in, still close, voices dropping again as Tom pulls the truck back onto the road. The rain streaks across the windshield, headlights carving a tunnel through the dark.

Tom catches fragments of conversation. Not words exactly, just tone, soft teasing, a murmur of reassurance. Sometimes a quiet laugh when the truck jolts slightly over a pothole and they bump into each other again.

Neither of them moves away.

They’re polite when they speak to him. Thank him again. Answer his questions. But most of the time, they’re somewhere else entirely, wrapped up in their shared warmth, like the broken-down car and the rain are just background noise.

Tom drives in comfortable silence, oddly peaceful.

When they reach town and he unhooks the car, the rain has eased into a mist. The mountains fade into shadow behind them.

“Take care.” Tom says.

“You too!” the dark-haired man replies warmly.

The taller one grins. “You are very kind. Thank you.”

They walk off together toward the lights, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without looking.

Tom watches them go for a second longer than necessary.

Then he climbs back into his truck, starts the engine, and heads back into the night with a small, unexpected smile.

It’s nice, he thinks, to fix a car and not have to fix a mood too.

Some nights, people are already okay, even in the rain.

Chapter 22: Movie Theater Seatmate

By the time Claire bought her ticket, she would have happily watched three hours of static on a terrible screen and an even worse chair.

She had not been alone, truly, gloriously alone, in years.

Her ex-husband had taken the kids to an amusement park. A real one. With roller coasters and mascots and overpriced ice creams. He had sounded so proud on the phone, like he’d personally invented fatherhood. She had smiled, wished them fun, and then stared at the silence of her apartment for ten full minutes like it might vanish if she blinked.

So she’d put on lipstick for no reason, chosen a sweater that didn’t have juice stains on it, and walked to the movie theater.

She didn’t even care what was playing.

At the box office, the teenager chewing gum told her the only thing showing was X-Squad.

“Is it good?” Claire asked.

The teenager shrugged. “It has explosions.”

Perfect.

She picked a seat without thinking, middle of the theater, decent view, far enough from the speakers that her ears wouldn’t ring. She noticed, as she walked in, that the theater was nearly empty.

Three seats taken.

A young couple tucked into the far corner, clearly there for reasons unrelated to cinema.

And one lone man in the very back row, hood up, posture rigid, aggressively shoveling popcorn into his mouth like it had personally offended him.

She hesitated when she realized she’d be sitting directly in front of him.

That felt awkward. She hated it when people sat right in front of her in empty theaters, it felt like a social confrontation. So she slid one seat over, giving him a clear view of the screen.

He did not acknowledge her.

Which was honestly perfect.

The previews rolled. She leaned back, legs stretched, feeling something close to peace for the first time in months.

She only vaguely knew one name in the cast list: Rose Landry.

Her brother adored Rose Landry. Had adored her since she was in that dystopian movie with fighting kids. He had once tried to convince Claire to watch all her movies because “she’s literally the most beautiful person alive. And so funny!”

The movie started.

Explosions. Mutants. Government conspiracy. A brooding man with metal-related powers and tragic eyes.

Claire settled in.

And then Rose Landry appeared on screen.

She was, unfortunately, stunning. Like, unfairly, statistically improbable levels of stunning. The camera adored her. The lighting adored her. Even the fake rain adored her.

Claire was thinking, Good for her, when she heard a very distinct scoff from behind her.

Not a casual scoff.

A deeply judgmental scoff.

She glanced back.

The man in the hood had frozen mid-popcorn bite, eyes narrowed at the screen, jaw clenched. He looked… personally betrayed by Rose Landry’s existence.

She turned forward again, amused.

Then Rose Landry’s character began flirting with the brooding, magnetic mutant.

The man behind her muttered, very clearly, in a thick accent “Of course she would flirt with the cute man.”

Claire’s eyebrows rose.

She kept watching the movie.

Next scene. Rose Landry is smiling. Touching the guy’s arm. Delivering what was probably meant to be a witty line.

Then, from behind her, “She cannot act. She only knows how to tilt head and smile.”

Claire bit her lip.

Another scene. Another dramatic glance. Another flirty moment.

“Why does every man in movie fall for her? This is unrealistic!” the man grumbled.

Claire stared straight ahead, shoulders shaking slightly with silent laughter.

By the fourth scene featuring Rose Landry, he was practically vibrating with irritation.

And then, during a slow-motion shot of Rose Landry walking through fire, hair blowing, soundtrack swelling, he threw a piece of popcorn at the screen.

It bounced off harmlessly a few seats in front of them.

Claire snapped.

She turned around.

“Excuse me.”

He blinked at her, startled, like he had forgotten other humans existed.

“Yes?”

“Why pay for a movie if you’re such a hater?”

His expression twisted, affronted. “I am not hater.”

“You just threw popcorn at her face.”

“She deserves it.”

Claire crossed her arms. “She’s an actress. In a movie.”

“She is bad actress.”

Claire stared at him. He had a strong face, sharp jaw, wide mouth, and expressive eyes. Tall, judging by how his knees pressed into the seat in front of him. Blond hair peeking out from the hood. And the accent… Russian? Eastern European.

“You look like a very annoyed kid,” she said.

He bristled. “I am not kid.”

“You’re throwing popcorn at celebrities.”

He paused, reconsidered, then scowled at the screen again. “She is overrated.”

Claire laughed.

She turned back forward, but the movie had lost her attention. A minute later, she heard him sigh dramatically.

“This movie is insult.”

“You could leave?” she whispered over her shoulder.

“No. I paid.”

She snorted.

A few minutes later, she felt a light tap on the back of her seat.

She turned.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lowered. “You like her?”

“Who?”

“Rose Landry.”

“She’s pretty.”

He looked deeply offended. “No. Yes. This is the problem.”

Claire tilted her head. “What problem?”

He hesitated. Then, with surprising seriousness, he said, “My… not-boyfriend is... fan of her.”

Claire choked on air.

“Your what?”

“Not-boyfriend.”

“That’s… very specific.”

He nodded solemnly. “He looks at her like she is perfect human being.”

“Is she not?”

“She is fake. She smiles too much.”

Claire laughed quietly. “You sound jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You are throwing popcorn at a woman on a screen.”

“This is justified dislike.”

“Sure.”

He leaned back, muttering something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like swearing.

Claire faced the screen again, but she was no longer watching the mutants. She was listening for him.

He only spoke when Rose Landry appeared.

“She does not even look mutant. She looks like shampoo commercial. And blue.”

“Her accent in this role is terrible.”

“Why does she touch everyone?”

Claire started turning around just to prompt more commentary.

At one point, she whispered, “So this not-boyfriend. Why does he like her so much?”

He scoffed. “Apparently, he likes soft voices and people with fake smiles. He has no taste.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You are better for him?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… adorable that you think you're better than her.”

He glared at her. “He is distracted. He will realize soon.”

Claire laughed out loud this time.

The young couple in the corner shushed them.

“Sorry,” Claire whispered, still smiling.

He leaned forward again. “She cannot even deliver line. She just looks pretty and men forgive everything.”

“That is how cinema works,” Claire said.

He shook his head. “It is injustice.”

They kept talking. Whispering commentary. Mocking the cast (“Why mutant looks like supermodels?”). Making fun of the villain monologue (“He is talking too much. Just punch him.”). Debating whether the explosions were practical effects or CGI. She also learns about his not-boyfriend freckles. His glasses. His love for Ginger Ale.

Claire hadn’t expected to enjoy this movie night.

But she hadn’t laughed this much in months.

At one point, she asked, “So what does your not-boyfriend think of this movie?”

“No idea. I’m sure he will even like weird blue skin on her.”

Claire snorted.

The movie ended with a dramatic sacrifice and a post-credit teaser.

The lights came up. Claire stretched, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

She turned to him.

“That was… not what I planned for my self-care evening.”

He smiled slightly. “Sorry… But was fun?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It was.”

They stood, walking toward the exit.

In the lobby, a life-size cut-out of Rose Landry stood beside a massive X-Squad poster, smiling, perfect, untouchable.

He stopped dead.

“Oh no.”

Claire grinned. “We have to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He groaned, but pulled out his phone. “Just one picture.”

He stood beside the cut-out, arms crossed, giving a dramatic thumbs-down.

“Make sure she looks ridiculous.” he instructed.

“She’s cardboard.”

“Still.”

Claire took the picture, laughing.

“Send it to your not-boyfriend,” she teased.

“Maybe. One day. When he is boyfriend and not not-boyfriend.”

“Good.”

Claire watched him for a moment.

He didn’t look like someone in denial. He looked like someone completely, catastrophically in love.

She handed him back the phone.

“Well,” she said “tell your not-boyfriend soon-to-be-boyfriend that Rose Landry is the prettiest actress and he has great taste.”

He sighed, fond but exasperated. “He is prettier.”

Claire laughed.

They walked out into the night and she watched him disappear down the street.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. But she hoped his not-yet-boyfriend will love him.

Because anyone who would sit through a terrible mutant movie just to complain about an actress his crush liked was, honestly, a keeper.

Chapter 23: Drunk Vegas Girls

By the time they reached the top floor, all three of them were convinced the elevator was moving sideways.

“I swear, if I puke in this thing, I’m suing Vegas!” Jess announced, gripping the rail like it was a lifeboat.

“You can’t sue a city. I think.” Lila said, solemnly, which meant she was definitely drunk.

Mandy just giggled and leaned her forehead against the mirrored wall. The elevator was small, packed with perfume and alcohol and glitter and the faint scent of expensive cologne that did not belong to any of them.

That’s when she noticed him.

He was pressed into the back corner, tuxedo crisp and dark, tie slightly loosened, dark hair falling into his eyes like he’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot. He looked… quiet. Like he’d wandered into their chaos by accident.

“Oh my god!” Jess gasped, leaning forward. “Is it your wedding day?”

The guy blinked. “Pardon?”

“The tuxedo,” Jess insisted. “Did you get married today?”

Mandy squinted. No ring. Very suspicious. Also, very pretty.

“He doesn’t have a ring,” Lila stage-whispered, which meant she basically yelled it.

They dissolved into giggles, collapsing into each other.

He stared at the glowing floor numbers like they personally offended him.

“Are you going to Strat-speeeer?” Jess asked, swaying dangerously.

“To where?”

“Strat-o-sphere.”

“Stratosphere,” Mandy corrected, because someone had to be the sober one, even though she absolutely was not. “The bar. On the roof.”

“There’s a bar on the roof?”

They all laughed at him like he’d just said the best joke ever.

“You are so cute,” Lila declared, poking his sleeve. “Come to the bar with us!”

“I can’t. Sorry.”

He sounded… polite. Exhausted. Like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

By the time the doors opened, they’d already forgotten him. Jess dragged them right toward the music and neon lights, and Mandy only glanced back once to see him turn the opposite way, toward a quieter corner of the rooftop.

“Wedding Guy is mysterious,” she declared.

“Wedding Guy is hot.” Lila corrected.

Twenty minutes later, Mandy was desperately searching for the bathroom, which felt like trying to solve a maze designed by a DJ. A drunk, blind DJ.

She stumbled past the bar, past people dancing on furniture, past a guy wearing a feather boa for reasons no one would ever understand.

And then she turned a corner.

And froze.

Because Wedding Guy was there again. Except he wasn’t alone.

The other guy was taller, blond, broad-shouldered, tuxedo just as sharp but somehow more rumpled, like he’d tried and failed to look composed. He was smoking, leaning on the railing, looking out at the city like he was in a sad music video.

They were talking. Mandy couldn’t hear everything, just pieces drifting through the night air.

“…go back to Russia…”

“Oh.”

Mandy paused behind a pillar because she had no idea why she suddenly felt like she shouldn’t be there.

They were quiet for a long time.

Then something shifted. She didn’t see who moved first, just that suddenly Wedding Guy was against the wall, blond guy’s hands on his arms, their mouths…

Mandy’s brain short-circuited. 

They were kissing.

Not a polite peck-kiss. Not a drunk party dare. This was an intense, desperate, city-lights-behind-them kind of kiss.

Mandy slapped a hand over her mouth and ducked back behind the pillar like she’d just witnessed a state secret. Maybe she did.

Wedding Guy pushed him away eventually, shaking his head, looking around like he was afraid someone might have seen.

Someone absolutely had seen.

But Mandy stayed hidden, heart pounding, until the blond guy walked away toward the elevators.

She waited a full minute before stepping out again.

She didn’t know what she’d just stumbled into, but she knew one thing with terrifying certainty: That was not a casual thing.

A few minutes later, they found Wedding Guy again.

He was alone at the bar, sipping something and staring into it like it might explain the universe.

Jess leaned on the counter next to him. “You look sad. That’s unacceptable in Vegas.”

He glanced at her. “I’m not sad.”

“Everyone is sad in Vegas,” Lila said sagely. “It’s the law.”

Mandy hovered, watching him carefully. He looked… softer now. Less cornered.

“Drink with us,” Jess demanded. “You already rejected us once. That’s illegal too.”

He hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“You are wearing a tuxedo in Las Vegas,” Mandy said. “You have already made questionable choices.”

He stared at her, then snorted a laugh.

And just like that, Wedding Guy was adopted.

They ended up in a booth somewhere that might have been a lounge and might have been a casino floor, or the famous hidden bathroom. Time had stopped making sense.

Shane eventually admitted his name, because Jess kept calling him “Wedding Guy” like it was government-issued. They did a good job with him, he was now officially very drunk.

“So you’re all single?” he asked, swirling his drink and spilling half on the table.

“Painfully.” Lila said.

“Tragically.” Jess added.

Mandy just nodded.

“That’s better. Boys are stupid.” Shane declared loudly.

“YES!” Jess shouted, slamming the table.

“They are dumb and beautiful and they ruin your life.” Lila said.

Shane laughed, but it sounded a little broken. “Yes you understand. But there’s this guy…”

Mandy’s ears perked up.

“He’s the worst. The actual worst. So arrogant. So loud. So… everything.”

“That’s every man, no?” Jess said.

“But he…” Shane made a vague hand motion. “He has this accent. Russian. And he laughs like he’s not supposed to be laughing. And when he smiles…”

He dropped his head onto the table for a second.

Lila gasped. “Oh my god, Wedding-Shane you’re in love!”

“I am not.”

“That’s what love sounds like…” Mandy whispered, heart racing.

“He’s infuriating,” Shane continued, ignoring them. “He just walks into a room like he owns it. And he touches people like he means it. And his lips…”

Jess squealed and grabbed Lila’s arm.

Shane looked at them, mortified and amused at the same time. “You’re not supposed to be listening.”

“You brought us into this,” Lila said. “Keep going.”

“He kissed me once. More than once.” Shane said quietly.

Mandy’s chest tightened.

“And it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he added. “And the best. And the worst. And god, the sex is…”

“OK! TMI let’s stop there!” Lila interrupted, laughing.

“What, no let him talk!” Jess was very interested in this story now.

Shane waved a hand. “I’m just saying. I can’t resist him. It’s like, he looks at me and my brain turns off. I hate it.”

“You love it.” Mandy said solemnly.

He stared at her, then sighed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

They all went quiet for a moment, the neon lights flickering, the world spinning gently.

“Boys ruin everything.” Lila said, and then started crying for no reason.

Jess hugged her. Mandy hugged both of them. Shane joined in awkwardly, one arm around all three of them.

“We deserve better.” Jess said into Lila’s hair.

“We do.” Shane muttered.

Mandy stared at him and thought of the blond guy on the rooftop, the way he’d kissed him like the world was ending.

“You deserve each other.” she said, but no one heard her.

The next morning was hell.

Lila woke up convinced she had died. Jess woke up convinced she had committed a felony. Mandy woke up with a headache and a memory that felt too important to belong to her.

They sat in their hotel room with coffee and regret.

“I don’t remember anything!” Jess said.

“Same…” Lila groaned.

Mandy stared at her cup.

“You don’t remember the tuxedo guy?” she asked.

“The wedding guy?” Jess squinted. “We met a wedding guy... Maybe?”

Mandy swallowed.

She remembered everything.

The elevator. The kiss on the rooftop. The way Shane had talked about the blond guy. The way his eyes had lit up and dimmed in the same breath.

“I hope he marries him.” she said quietly.

“Who?” Lila asked.

“No one,” Mandy said smiling to herself. “Just… I hope one day he’ll be in a tuxedo for real. For his wedding. With his Russian soulmate.”

Jess blinked. “You’re weird when you’re hungover.”

Mandy didn’t answer.

Somewhere in Vegas, two boys had kissed on a rooftop and thought no one had seen.

Mandy had. And she was never, ever telling.

Chapter 24: Unenthusiastic Gym-goer

Oliver did not sign up for a gym because he wanted muscles, enlightenment, or a social life.

Oliver signed up for a gym because his mother would not stop texting.

You need to go out more.
Gym is good for the mind.
Your cousin started pilates and now she’s glowing.
When was the last time you saw sunlight?

His mind was fine, thank you very much. His mind enjoyed quiet evenings, microwave dinners, and being left alone by the world. His mind did not enjoy people, fluorescent lighting, or heavy objects designed to make him regret existing.

But at 8:30 p.m., after twelve messages, three crying emojis, and one suspiciously passive-aggressive “I just worry about you,” he cracked.

So here he was.

9:00 p.m. Gym. First time. Possibly last time. A controlled experiment in regret.

The gym was empty.

Beautifully, gloriously, magnificently empty.

He wandered around like a confused museum visitor, reading labels on machines as if they were rare artifacts from an extinct civilization that worshiped suffering.

He stretched. Slowly. Extremely slowly. Possibly slower than medically necessary. His playlist was dramatic indie music, which he felt was appropriate for the emotional weight of standing near dumbbells.

He spent a full seven minutes staring at a squat rack like it might explain itself.

He was still stretching when a man entered.

The man was clearly an athlete. Dark hair, sharp posture, the kind of person who probably had opinions about protein intake and sleep cycles. He didn’t notice Oliver at all, which Oliver appreciated deeply. He went straight to the treadmill, pressed buttons with confidence, and started running like he was being chased by existential dread.

Five minutes later, another man entered.

This one was tall, blond, absurdly muscular, and walked with the confidence of someone who had never struggled to open a jar in his life. He beelined toward Dark Hair like a missile with feelings.

Fantastic. The gym now contained:

     - Two athletic demigods.

     - Oliver: A man who had just learned that ab rollers existed.

They started running together.

Faster. And faster.

Talking. Laughing.

How they were still breathing was beyond him. Oliver suspected witchcraft, steroids, or a pact with some minor deity of cardio.

He moved to some machines and tried them with the enthusiasm of a man touching lava. Everything was uncomfortable, loud, or required instructions longer than his taxes. He sat on one machine backward and only realized when the screen was upside down. He tried a rowing machine and immediately decided that water sports were too dangerous for an indoor gym.

The demigods kept running.

They bumped shoulders. One nudged the other. They shared a water bottle like they were in a commercial. At one point, Blond Guy wiped sweat off Dark Hair’s forehead with his thumb. This was either romantic or deeply illegal in several countries.

He tried not to stare.

They hopped off the treadmills and started stretching.

Is that not supposed to be first? Oliver wondered. Had WikiHow betrayed him? Again?

Their stretching routine looked… cooperative.

Very cooperative.

They held each other’s arms. Adjusted each other’s legs. Maintained prolonged eye contact. There was slow touching. Suspiciously tender touching. One of them braced the other’s hips like they were about to attempt acrobatics.

Okay. Definitely dating. Nobody touched another person’s sweaty body voluntarily unless they were either deeply in love or being paid a lot.

He sat on a giant gym ball. He had no idea what the purpose was, but it was bouncy and required no effort. 10/10 equipment. He bounced slightly, contemplating life and whether they were going to have sex in front of him under the guise of “advanced stretching techniques.”

He usually liked being invisible. The background character. The NPC. But now it was starting to feel… vexing. They hadn’t noticed him at all. He was a grown man bouncing on a yoga ball like a sad clown.

He tested how invisible he was by bouncing higher.

Nothing.

He dropped his phone on the floor on purpose.

Nothing.

He waved a hand with as much energy as he could (not that much, honestly).

Absolutely nothing.

He concluded he had become a ghost, which explained a lot about his dating life.

Should he try the punching bag? The sound of his wheezing might attract attention. But effort. So much effort.

They were still not kissing.

Honestly, the tension was ridiculous. No one warned him about this risk of gyms: unresolved romantic tension between extremely attractive strangers.

He wasn’t homophobic. He was just impatient. He was a binge-watcher. He needed answers. He needed conclusions. He did not tolerate weekly cliffhangers.

Come on. Kiss. Hug. Confess your love. Start a podcast. Something.

Oh.

There it was.

They kissed.

Okay. Actually. Maybe he should leave.

They escalated.

Right. Definitely leaving.

He stood up from the ball too quickly.

He immediately fell down.

Full loss of dignity. Zero grace. He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, accepting death and the possibility that gym balls were sentient and hostile.

He glanced at them.

Nothing.

They still hadn’t noticed him.

This was no longer charming. This was personal.

He rolled to his knees like a man defeated by furniture and reflected on his life choices. A moan snapped him back to reality.

Time to go.

The path to the locker room went right past them. Uncomfortably close. Like “should I remove my shoes and tiptoe around” close.

He walked past.

They were tangled on the floor. He could not identify whose hand he almost stepped on. He did not want to know. There were limbs. There was heavy breathing. There was zero awareness of his existence.

They did not look up.

Not even a glance.

Twenty minutes in the shower, he wondered if this was his superpower. Not invisibility, just… unnoticeability. Could that be used for crime fighting? Or grocery shopping? Or skipping meetings?

He got dressed, feeling oddly accomplished.

One hour at the gym. Incredible. Historic. Olympic.

He texted his mother.

Went to gym. Stayed one hour. Survived.

He was not sure he would return.

Except for the two weird guys, it had been incredibly boring.

Though, he admitted, they had excellent chemistry.

Chapter 25: Street Artist

SeoJoon had been drawing faces in Myeongdong for five years.

Tourists liked exaggeration like big eyes, giant smiles and dramatic small noses. But that was not his style. His sign, "Squirrel Caricature", was a little misleading. He didn’t distort people.

He reduced them to black marker, clean lines, no color. Just enough to show who someone was when they weren’t trying.

It was almost 9 p.m., neon signs buzzing softly over the street food carts, when the two foreigners stopped in front of his stand.

They look glowing, flushed from cold air and laughter. One tall and blond, shoulders loose, energy spilling out of him like he was mid-story. The other dark-haired, not cold but contained, observing everything.

Contrast, SeoJoon thought immediately.

“Yes?” he said, gesturing to the small wooden bench.

“Oh my god, drawing?” the blond one asked brightly, already stepping forward.

His friend sighed, fond and long-suffering at the same time, but sat.

They were too big for the bench. Their knees bumped instantly.

SeoJoon hid a smile.

He positioned his sketchpad on the easel and studied them the way he always did, in silence.

The blond one moved too much.

“Still.” he said gently, pressing his own shoulders back as a demonstration.

The blond nodded solemnly.

He lasted three seconds.

The dark-haired one murmured something under his breath, soft and teasing. He didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. The blond’s grin widened, blinding and unashamed.

SeoJoon began with the dark-haired one.

Sharp jaw. Freckles across the nose, faint but important. Eyes slightly hooded, focused. He drew the line of his mouth carefully. Naturally serious, but pulled up at one corner right now because of something only the other man had said.

He shifted to the blond.

Longer lines. Open face. Eyes that crinkled easily. A mouth that didn’t know how to sit neutral for long. There was something bright and energetic about him. Like even seated, he leaned forward into the world.

Opposites.

While he worked, they whispered.

The blond said, “Handsome artist!” pointing at SeoJoon’s sketchpad.

The dark-haired one immediately elbowed him.

“Stop flirting!” he muttered.

“I am appreciating talent.”

“You appreciate everything.”

SeoJoon didn’t need full vocabulary to understand that rhythm. He’d seen it before.

Not new love or uncertain love.

Comfortable love.

He drew faster.

The lines came quickly tonight, five minutes, maybe less. When something is clear, it doesn’t need time.

As he finished their shoulders, he paused.

Between them, there was a gap. Just a sliver of white paper.

But they weren’t separate tonight. Not really.

SeoJoon lifted his marker and, small enough that it won’t be too much, drew a simple heart between their outlines.

Not exaggerated or cartoonish.

Just there.

Because some things are obvious.

He turned the pad around.

The blond gasped dramatically. The dark-haired one leaned closer, studying it with quiet intensity.

For a moment, neither of them joked.

The dark-haired one touched the paper lightly. Then he looked at his friend, softer than before.

They paid in cash, bowing awkwardly. The blond bowed too deeply. The dark-haired one corrected him under his breath.

As they turned to walk away, their shoulders brushed.

They didn’t notice they were already leaning toward each other.

Right then, a young Korean couple sat on the same bench. They had a tiny white dog in a sweater in their arms.

“Can you draw him too?” the woman asked, placing the dog carefully between them.

SeoJoon nodded.

As he began sketching, he noticed movement to his left.

The tall blond foreigner had stopped twenty steps away.

He was staring. At the dog. At the space between the couple.

He nudged his dark-haired companion urgently and pointed.

The dark-haired one followed his gaze and laughed, low and delighted.

The blond looked particularly offended.

He gestured animatedly, something about unfairness, maybe. About missed opportunity. Someone called Anya, maybe?

The dark-haired one shook his head, but his hand slid into the blond’s coat pocket.

The blond melted instantly.

He pretended not to watch and finished the couple’s drawing, adding the small dog carefully between them, round and proud in his sweater.

When he handed it over, the woman squealed.

Behind her, the blond foreigner made a dramatic, wounded sound and placed a hand over his heart again, as if betrayed by art itself.

SeoJoon almost laughed.

The foreigners disappeared into the bright river of Seoul night, still bickering softly.

He would forget many faces but not the contrast of them together.

Black hair. Blond hair.

Sharp lines. Soft edges.

Stillness they could not manage.

Happiness they did not hide.

He hoped they noticed the heart but he suspected they didn’t need to.

Chapter 26: Waffle Woman

Chapter Notes

Please read this first!

I know that this fic has become a comfort read for some people and that means the world to me, so thank you!

I just want to say that this chapter is heavier than most in this series and I don't want that to upset anyone without the proper trigger warning. It deals with themes such as suicidal thoughts and mental health issues.
But as always, even when I write about darker moments, I choose a hopeful ending!

Take care of yourself ❤️

She hated the balloons.

They were tied to white folding chairs, to information stands, to the fence around the park in Ottawa like hope could be secured with a cheap string.

She had already decided.

It would be tonight. She had a plan. A small apartment. A bottle waiting in the bathroom cabinet. Everything quiet. Everything simple.

And then this.

Music. Laughter. Children running between tables covered in brochures. Volunteers in matching t-shirts. Posters about “checking in with yourself.” Booths with psychologists offering free consultations. A craft table where kids were drawing what their feelings looked like. She wouldn’t even know where to start.

In large letters on a banner: “Irina Foundation: You Don’t Have to Do This Alone”

She almost laughed at the cruelty of it.

She was walking through the park only because it was the shortest way home. Fate had a twisted sense of humor.

She kept her head down. If she didn’t look at the posters, they weren’t real. If she didn’t read the hotline numbers, they weren’t meant for her. If she didn’t see the happy people talking openly about anxiety and burnout and grief, she wouldn’t have to feel the bitterness rising in her throat.

She felt like a ghost drifting through a party. They were all too bright, too alive.

She bumped into someone.

A solid body. Tall.

She barely whispered an apology without lifting her head. She starts walking again.

Fingers caught her sleeve.

Not aggressive. Just firm enough to stop her.

She almost pulled away on instinct but something in the grip felt… careful.

She finally looked up.

A blond man stood in front of her.

He wasn’t smiling. But he didn’t look mad either.

That was what unsettled her first.

He was looking at her, not past her, not through her, not politely around her.

At her.

It felt invasive. Like he’d opened a door she had worked very hard to keep shut.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. The noise of the event blurred into something distant.

Then he asked, very simply:

“Do you want a waffle?”

The question didn’t compute.

She blinked.

And suddenly then she smelled it, the sugar and butter and chocolate melting somewhere behind him. Warm and real.

She almost said no.

But he was already turning, still holding lightly to her sleeve, guiding rather than dragging.

He bought two chocolate waffles from the stand without asking what she preferred. He handed her one.

Then he led her farther away, to the edge of the park, beneath a wide tree where the music dulled and the laughter became background hum instead of assault.

They stood side by side, leaning against the trunk.

She stared at the waffle in her hands.

This was absurd.

She was planning to die tonight.

And she was holding a waffle.

They ate in silence for a while.

He didn’t look at her when he finally spoke.

“Are you feeling alright?”

The question was soft. Casual, almost.

It had been so long since anyone had asked it like that, without impatience or already assuming the answer.

She forgot how to lie.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod.

“You have the same look my mom used to have.”

The words hit like cold water.

Recognition hurt more than invisibility.

“Does she feel better now?” she asked automatically, politeness ingrained too deeply to disappear even today.

He swallowed.

“No. Not really.”

Her own words returned to her.

The waffle feels stuck in her throat.

She forced another question, trying to distract herself.

“So… this foundation. You’re helping her?”

She had noticed his face on the posters around the park. Apparently an athlete. A hockey player. It tugged at an old memory of her brother watching games when they were children.

“It’s too late for her,” he said quietly. “She left a while ago.”

That stopped her.

Left.

Such a gentle word for something so violent.

Tears came before she understood why. They blurred the park around her.

“I… I’m…”

She didn’t know what she was trying to say.

The rest of the waffle slipped from her hand and fell into the grass.

He didn’t scold her for the waste. He didn’t rush to fix anything.

He just sighed softly and sat down.

From below, he made a small gesture with his fingers, an invitation.

She sat beside him.

For a while, they did nothing.

He leaned his elbows on his knees, waffle with chocolate melting across his fingers, forgotten. She tried to steady her breathing.

The music from the foundation drifted through the trees.

“Do you think she regretted it?” she asked suddenly.

The question horrified her the second it left her mouth.

She turned toward him, already forming an apology.

But he was thinking, actually thinking.

“I wish I could say yes,” he said at last. “But I don’t know.”

He rubbed his chin slowly.

“She had my brother and me. We loved her with everything we had. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing would’ve been enough for her.”

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only grief that had been carried for a long time.

“She didn’t have help,” he continued. “And two kids aren’t much help. Not really. Love from other people isn’t always the thing that fixes it.” He exhaled. “You need to learn how to love yourself. Or at least not hate yourself so much that you want to disappear.”

It sounded like something posted on Facebook with a cheesy background picture and a fancy font.

And yet, under this tree, with chocolate on his fingers and his voice rough around the edges… It felt true.

“That’s not easy.” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed immediately. “It’s not.”

He glanced back toward the park, where volunteers were explaining coping strategies at a booth covered in bright colors.

“That’s why this exists. It’s about getting help. Real help. Professionals. Community. It’s about learning to stay. Even when it feels pointless.”

She huffed a shaky breath.

“Nice speech.”

It came out sounding sarcastic. She didn’t mean it that way.

He smiled faintly.

“Thanks. My therapist would be very proud to hear I’m actually listening to her.”

A small, startled laugh escaped her.

It felt foreign in her chest.

She inhaled.

The night didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

“Do you have any flyers that could help me?” she asked.

There it was.

Not a declaration of hope or a promise.

Just a question.

His entire posture changed, not triumphant, just attentive.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I have the best flyers. Very colorful. Extremely professional phone numbers. Cute dog pictures on some of them.”

He stood and extended his hand.

“Come with me?”

She hesitated only a second before placing her hand in his.

His grip was warm. Steady.

They walked back toward the lights together.

As they approached, she noticed another man near the main booth, dark-haired, watchful and pretending not to have been scanning the tree line every thirty seconds. Their eyes met briefly.

Relief softened his shoulders.

She didn’t know their names.

She didn’t know that the foundation was built in honor of Irina, a mother who had swallowed pills when her youngest son was twelve. She didn’t know that the blond man beside her had been the one to find her.

She didn’t know any of that yet.

What she knew was this: tonight, she would not feel alone in her apartment.

Tonight, she would take home a flyer instead of opening a bottle.

Chapter 27: Audiobook Girl

Agathe was peacefully minding her own business.

Which, frankly, was her favorite activity.

Her spot was elite-tier. A hidden corner of the botanical garden in Ottawa, tucked behind thick foliage and a dramatic stone fountain that sounded expensive. No one came here. It was her place.

Quiet with just grass, water, and her audiobook narrator doing God’s work.

She liked this place because no one stared at her here.

In the city, she could feel it sometimes, the double takes, the whispers, the pity. Here, she was just a girl on the grass with headphones in, living her best introvert life.

So yes, he was mildly homicidal when she heard them.

Giggling and crashing. Absolutely violating several plants. Branches snapped. Leaves trembled.

There was definitely some kissing happening in the middle of what she could only describe as a biodiversity massacre.

Agathe paused her audiobook and counted to three.

They were still giggling.

She sighed, removed one earbud, and delivered her best Professor Umbridge: 

“Hum. Hum.”

Immediate chaos and more branches breaking. A yelp. A curse, not English. Slavic? Aggressive vowel energy anyway.

A man’s voice followed, horrified. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, we didn’t see you.”

Oh…Oh, that was too good.

She deadpanned, “Yeah. Same.”

This, paired with lifting her folded white cane and tapping her sunglasses, did the trick.

Silence followed quickly by, “Oh my God. I am so sorry. I am so, so…”

Behind him, another voice exploded into laughter. Not a chuckle. A full-body, unfiltered howl.

“Ilya,” the first voice hissed. “Don’t laugh. That’s disrespectful.”

There was a sharp elbow noise. A muffled “Ow.”

“But it was funny,” the accented one protested. “I liked it!”

She grinned. “Thanks. I live for making people uncomfortable.”

“Same,” the accented one said immediately. “And trust me, Shane here is very easy to annoy.”

“Oh no,” the first one muttered. “You are not ganging up on me with a stranger… No offense.”

“None taken,” she said brightly. “You know what? I like you. You can continue whatever you were doing.”

More spluttering and another booming laugh.

“Ilya, don’t even think about it!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I know that look.”

“I was just thinking,” this Ilya guy continued thoughtfully, “this would be the tamest way to explore your exhibitionist kink.”

“I don’t have a… You know what? I’m not doing this.”

“So that’s a no?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, you want?”

“No!”

“But you just said…”

Agathe was having more fun than she’d had all week. So much better than the audiobook!

The poor Shane guy groaned. “I am so sorry, he has issues. He is an asshole.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. He seems supportive of your interests. That’s healthy.”

Shane's desperate noise was deeply satisfying.

“Yes, I am very supportive,” Ilya agreed proudly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You love me.”

“I’m divorcing you.”

“We’re not even married yet?!”

“I’m pre-divorcing you.”

“That’s so mean.”

She laughed out loud this time.

They shuffled awkwardly.

“We should probably leave you in peace,” Shane said. “Sorry again for barging in.”

“Oh, no worries,” she said. “The book was getting boring anyway.”

“You have book on your phone?” Ilya asked.

There was a pause.

“Babe,” Shane said slowly, “the fact that you don’t know what an audiobook is is concerning.”

“What? They just read the whole thing? Do they make voices? Like bedtime stories?”

She considered. “Actually, yes. But with smut.”

“With what?” Ilya demanded. “Shane, what does it mean?”

“Honestly? No idea.”

Oh.

Sweet summer children.

“Graphic sex scenes,” she clarified calmly.

Silence. A long one. Agathe waited patiently with a very innocent smile.

“…Where can I buy audiobooks?” Ilya finally asked.

A sharp smack. “What! That sounds more interesting than your boring books!”

“You can find them online,” she continued helpfully. “All genres. The one I’m listening to right now is about two gay baseball players. But honestly? Too much baseball. Not enough smut.”

She was happy to recommend a few books, really.

“What about hockey players?”

She was surprised by who asked this question, though the other guy was as well apparently.

He gasped dramatically. “Shane. Am I not enough for you?”. He sounded half vexed and half amused.

“No! I just meant… academically. Like, from a cultural standpoint... It could be interesting to see how they talk about hockey from a completely different perspective, you know?”

Yeah, sure. They all know.

She smirked. “Oh. So you both enjoy the boy aquarium?”

“The what?” Ilya dropped to the grass in front of her. She could hear it, he was not really graceful. “You speak many strange and funny words. Tell me everything.”

“Hockey,” Agathe said. “It’s just an aquarium where you can stare at cute boys trapped behind glass.”

A beat.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered reverently, “we are fish-boys.”

“Oh my God,” Shane muttered.

“So,” she continued, “what kind of fish are you, fish-boy?”. She was having too much fun.

“I am a shark,” Ilya declared instantly. “Fast. Strong. Undeserved bad reputation.”

Shane mumbled something about not being behind that undeserved.

They both ignore him, obviously.

“Nice,” she said. “And him?”

“What am I?” Shane asked cautiously.

“He is Octopus.”

“…What.”

Agathe could feel the death stare radiating from him. Thankfully, not in her direction.

“What is wrong with octopus?” Ilya demanded.

“Everything?” Shane replied.

“No!” Ilya protested. “They are the smartest! I saw documentary. Very intelligent. Also, very clingy. You wrap around me at night like…”

“Stop talking.”

“...and they are great suckers thanks to...”

“Stop, that’s TMI Ilya!”

“You are blushing.” He dares to sing-song. This guy has no fear.

Then, sudden noises and grass shifting.

They were absolutely wrestling. Or something? Hard to tell from the sound, but one definitely sounded half-strangled.

She leaned back against the fountain and smiled.

Way better than chapter fourteen of Baseball Boys in Love.

Eventually, they disentangled and kept talking for a while, full of banters and laughter.

“We’re going to be late,” Shane finally said between laughs. “We have to pick up our dog.”

“From our dog’s grandparents,” Ilya said proudly.

That was so disgustingly cute that Agathe almost forgave the plant casualties from earlier.

They stood.

“We’ll double-check the bushes next time…” Shane promised.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed solemnly. “Full inspection.”

Footsteps faded and silence returned.

She slipped her earbuds back in.

She liked this place because no one looked at her here.

No pity. No curiosity. No whispers.

But sometimes she liked it when chaos barged in laughing and left her smiling.

She pressed play.

Honestly?

Maybe Agathe should find a book about hockey next.

Chapter 28: Gate Watcher

Brian loves airports.

Not planes. Planes are cramped and dry and smell faintly of recycled despair.

Airports, however? Airports are theatre.

Specifically, they are immersive theatre where nobody knows they are performing.

Brian loves people-watching.

He always arrives extra early for his flights, not because he is anxious (he is, but that’s unrelated), but because greatness cannot be rushed.

He glides through security like a seasoned professional, shoes off in one elegant motion, liquids already in a transparent pouch like a man who has known bureaucracy and survived it.

Then Brian finds his throne, the perfect seat to observe humanity in motion.

Today’s throne is a cushioned seat near the bathrooms at Charles de Gaulle Airport, directly across from a sandwich shop and with an excellent diagonal view of three departure boards.

Strategic. Elite positioning.

His flight to Mexico doesn’t board until 4 p.m.

Plenty of time for a proper meal, and possibly a croissant before boarding.

But more importantly, Brian has time to play.

The rules are simple:

1. Observe
2. Invent
3. Deduce from Where, to Where, and Why
4. Resist the urge to actually interrogate strangers

The last part is not easy, to be honest.

But sometimes, when someone is particularly interesting, Brian will stand up and follow at a respectable distance until he sees which gate they stop at. Then he checks the destination on the screen above the gate.

Curiosity satisfied, he returns to his throne, near the Duty Free area for example, and waits for his next inspiration.

It sounds crazy. Maybe slightly predatory, even. But honestly? He’s just bored and far too curious.

He used to work on cruise ships as an entertainment employee. The best years of his life, glitter, music, themed parties, and dramatic flirting by the pool.

Now, years later, thanks to his lifetime employee discount, he goes on cruises several times a year. As a passenger, of course.

Mostly. He might still wander near the pool to help with the animation team once in a while…

Anyway, the first hour is warm-up.

A family of six marches past in coordinated fleece jackets: Norway, obviously. Snow boots in July? Suspicious behavior.

A businessman in a suit that has personally offended him: Munich. Or London. Something grey and spreadsheet-adjacent.

A trio of women in matching pink sunglasses and chaotic energy: Barcelona. Bachelorette party. He would stake money on it.

Then… A man with a cat carrier.

He straightens. This is advanced-level content.

The cat looks furious. Deeply betrayed and possibly reconsidering all of its life choices.

Switzerland, he decides. Cat-friendly. Not too far.

Brian cannot resist. He rises and follows at what he considers a respectful distance.

They stop at a gate for Montreal. Montreal?!

That is extremely far for a cat. He is concerned. But deeply impressed.

He returns to his throne, pleased with himself.

The second hour grows more complex.

A woman in full bridal white, veil and all, dragging a suitcase alone: Runaway wedding? Or influencer content? She is FaceTiming someone while crying. Oh, that changes things then, it's definitely Las Vegas. Emotional chaos package.

A man in hiking boots and a backpack the size of a small country: Nepal. Or Patagonia. Or maybe just Lyon and he is being dramatic.

A priest eating a burger with alarming enthusiasm: Dublin. No explanation. 

Two teenagers sharing headphones and looking like the world has ended: First heartbreak. One is leaving for university in Porto.

He almost applauds his own accuracy.

Then Brian sees them.

The cutest couple he has witnessed in weeks! Months!

Now, he acknowledges that his judgment may be biased. He has, after all, an old gay heart that cannot help melting at the sight of young gay love.

Oh, they’re subtle at first. But trust him, his gaydar has been professionally trained by years of yearning after straight men on cruise ships.

They’re standing in front of the sandwich display, debating something deeply serious. The way they banter is exquisite, loving and exasperated at the same time.

The blond one is animated, hands moving dramatically, pointing at options with theatrical urgency.

The dark-haired one stands beside him, composed, eyes sharp and unimpressed.

They are not touching.

But they are orbiting.

Gay.

Absolutely gay.

Time to play seriously.

From where? To where? Why?

This one won’t be easy, they could be from anywhere.

The blond one looks Nordic. Or Eastern European, maybe. Tall. Loud. American? Maybe. But the hand gestures suggest Italian ancestry at minimum.

The dark-haired one… Wasian, perhaps. Yes. That feels right. Calm exterior. Internal chaos. Classic.

They’re too far away to hear clearly, but he’s betting English. He isn’t a lip reader, but if he concentrates very hard, he is fairly certain he sees the words “avocado” and “absolutely not.”

Yes, Brian is fairly certain the blond just said something apparently scandalous about avocado.

He narrows his eyes.

Australia?

Ooooh. That could be it. He has never been to Australia. He has a deadly fear of spiders. He once saw a photograph of a spider the size of a plate and decided absolutely not. Traumatizing.

So. From Australia to…

They’re dressed lightly with shorts and a T-shirt for one, shorts and a linen shirt for the other. Somewhere warm, then. They have a sun-ready energy that he can relate to.

Thailand?

No. That makes no logistical sense if they’re stopping in France, coming from Australia.

He is losing his gift.

They finally purchase a sandwich and a salad and sit nearby.

They share an armchair. Their knees touch.

They keep bickering, but they lean into each other unconsciously.

Disgustingly adorable.

He adores them.

Wait, is that…

Oh. Yes!

A wedding ring.

His eyesight may be aging, but it is still powerful when romance is involved.

That solves the “why”: Honeymoon.

His favorite category.

Honeymoon couples glow differently. Softer and brighter at the same time. 

Now the destination matters.

European honeymoon destinations for a gay couple.

Greece. Spain. Italy.

No one is going to Belgium for their honeymoon. Let’s be serious.

It has to feel special. Different from Australian beaches. Something romantic. Something that feels like dancing drunkenly past midnight, naked on a beach.

Ibiza.

That thought makes him pause.

His own “honeymoon” had been there. Gay weddings weren’t legal yet, but they didn’t care. They called each other husbands anyway.

He and James.

The week had been sun and salt and dancing barefoot on warm sand. They had promised forever with plastic champagne flutes on a hotel balcony. They kissed in public and dared the world to look away.

He hasn’t been back since James died.

The young couple laughs again. The blond bumps his shoulder against the dark-haired one’s jaw on purpose. The dark-haired one pretends to be annoyed and then steals the last bite of the sandwich in retaliation.

He waits until they stand. They sling backpacks over their shoulders.

Brian considers following them. He always follows people that interested him.

It's time to stand now, to trail after them and confirm the destination on the board.

He rises halfway and stops.

He looks at them walking side by side, hands brushing but not quite holding in the open space of the terminal.

He sits back down.

No, he doesn’t need to know. Doesn’t really want to know.

Sometimes the magic is better unverified.

In his version, they are flying to Ibiza.

He hopes they will dance barefoot. That they will drink and laugh on a hotel balcony.

He hopes they get a lifetime of ordinary mornings and dramatic arguments about avocado.

Most of all, Brian hopes they get what he had.

Unconditional love.

Chapter 29: Teenager in a Supply Closet

Dean was looking at the latest issue of GQ on his phone.

More specifically, the one where Ilya Rozanov had done a photoshoot.

It was the best day ever.

Well. Maybe the second-best.

The best day was definitely Monday of last week, when he started the hockey summer camp with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. And other coaches of course.

That had been a dream come true.

Right now, he was hidden in the supply closet of the arena. Everyone else was on break and most of the guys had gone to find something to eat.

But Dean couldn’t wait.

The pictures had dropped on Instagram five minutes ago.

He wasn’t drooling. Absolutely not.

But his cheeks were getting dangerously warm as he swiped through the post.

Damn.

Every single picture was amazing.

He definitely needed to calm down before going back out there.

He was almost at the final picture when the door he was leaning against opened abruptly.

Dean fell backwards like a bad cartoon character, letting out a very undignified yelp.

Above him stood Shane Hollander.

His arms were full of practice cones.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you okay, Dean?”

No. Dean was not okay.

He had spent the past week working very hard to make a good impression.

And it had all collapsed the moment he literally collapsed on the floor.

“I’m okay… I’m just… I’ll get up, sorry.”

He scrambled to his feet while Shane shoved the cones onto the first shelf and tried to help him.

“Don’t go too fast,” Shane said. “Did you hit your head? Are you feeling alright?”

Shane Hollander was too pure for this world.

Dean had hoped the starstruck feeling would fade after a few days.

It had not.

It probably never would.

“No, everything’s good, really!”

“Right. That’s great.”

Shane stepped a little further into the closet and bent down to pick up something Dean had knocked over.

“What were you doing in the closet instead of…”

He stopped.

Dean finally found the strength to stop staring miserably at the floor and look up.

Shane was holding his phone.

Shane was looking at his phone.

Shane was looking at the Instagram post on his phone.

SHANE HOLLANDER was looking at pictures of his husband in very compromising positions ON DEAN’S PHONE.

He was going to die.

Actually, he was already dying.

This was a slow, painful, deeply humiliating death.

Shane looked up.

Very slowly.

Their eyes met.

Dean was almost convinced Shane’s eyes were reflecting the exact same thing as his own: wide open, with a very noticeable amount of horror.

“Uh…”

Dean couldn’t even manage a sound in response.

“I guess it’s… I mean… is this your phone?” Shane asked carefully, holding it up.

Everything was moving very slowly.

Like if anyone moved too fast, the entire situation would explode.

Dean briefly considered saying no.

Unfortunately, the wallpaper was a picture of him and his dad at one of his hockey games.

So that lie wouldn’t survive for long.

“Yes?”

Wow. Very convincing.

“Maybe you should take it back.”

Right.

Maybe letting Shane stand there holding his phone, with pictures of his half-naked husband still on the screen, was not a great idea.

The second Dean realized that, everything started moving fast again.

He snatched the phone and slammed the app closed.

You know what? He should just delete Instagram.

It clearly wasn’t safe for him.

He was in the middle of deleting the app, and TikTok too just to be safe, when Shane spoke again.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

Dean blinked at him, still wide-eyed.

“No, I won’t do it again, I promise.”

That seemed to shock Shane enough that he stopped looking nervous.

Now he just looked confused.

“What won’t you do again?”

“…Look at pictures of… him. Or anyone. Sorry.”

This situation was deeply uncomfortable.

Dean desperately wanted to flee.

“You know you didn’t do anything wrong, right?”

Of course he did something wrong.

Dean opened his mouth to say something else.

Shane’s expression turned a little sad.

Oh shit.

He had said it out loud.

They stared at each other for a moment before Shane sighed and sat down on the floor.

Was Dean supposed to sit too?

Hopefully not.

Unfortunately, Shane was now gesturing for him to sit across from him.

Great.

Yes.

Being on the floor of a supply closet definitely made this situation better.

“So…” Shane started. “You probably know this already, but I’m gay.”

Dean snorted.

He didn’t mean to.

It just happened.

He slapped a hand over his mouth and stared at the floor again.

“Right,” Shane said dryly. “Everyone knows that already. You’re right.”

He picked up one of the cones and started turning it in his hands.

“What I mean is… if you’re feeling a little different from the other guys at camp and you want to talk about it… I can listen.”

“…Thank you.”

A small pause.

“…Do you want to talk about it?” Shane asked gently.

“I don’t really know what to say.”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

“No.”

Dean swallowed.

“No one knows. My dad would be devastated.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s not homophobic or anything but… he really wants me to become a successful hockey player one day.”

Shane frowned slightly.

“Does he think you can’t be a hockey player and not be straight?”

“Well no, of course not! I mean, you’re the best hockey player ever. You and Ilya!”

Oh god.

Saying Ilya’s name reminded him exactly why they were in this situation.

He could feel himself blushing again.

Shane laughed.

The traitor.

“Yes, exactly,” Shane said. “It really doesn’t matter if you like men, women, both, or no one at all. Hockey has nothing to do with it.”

He paused.

“Did anyone say something to you? In the locker room or during practice?”

“No. Not really. Most guys are pretty okay with it now. You and Ilya are both hockey legends, so it would be kind of stupid to say anything…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Shane said. “People can still be very stupid.”

Dean let out a weak laugh.

“I just… don’t really know what to do.”

“Well… nothing?”

“What?”

“I mean you don’t have to do anything,” Shane said. “You don’t have to tell anyone if you’re not ready. You have your whole life to figure it out.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Just live your life the way you want,” Shane said quietly. “Don’t worry about what other people might think or expect from you. It’s your life. No one else’s.”

Dean nodded slowly.

“Thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” Shane said. “It took me a long time to figure that out myself. So if I can help someone get there faster, I’m happy to.”

He hesitated.

“Just… can we keep this between us?”

He lifted his phone slightly.

“Especially the pictures.”

“Oh my god, yes,” Shane said immediately. “The last thing Ilya needs is to know about one more person looking at his photos. His ego really doesn’t need that.”

Dean snorted.

“He’s going to know. The pictures were posted five minutes ago and they already have thousands of likes.”

“Ugh,” Shane groaned. “He’s never going to shut up about it now. One of his teammates once admitted he had a poster of Ilya in his room and I swear Ilya talked about it for weeks.”

Dean could feel himself blushing again.

“Why are you…oh no,” Shane said, squinting at him. “Not you too.”

“I mean…” he muttered. “He is very photogenic.”

“I know,” Shane sighed. “He’s amazing.”

He paused.

“Never tell him that though. Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

They stood up and left the closet.

Shane started walking back toward the rink when Dean stopped him.

“Hey, Shane?”

Shane turned.

“I did have a poster of him on my wall,” Dean admitted. “But… I had one of you too.”

Shane blinked.

“You’ve always been my role model,” he said. “You’re the reason I started playing hockey. So… thank you for that too.”

Shane turned his head slightly and smiled.

His eyes went a little misty.

“You know what? You’re free to tell him that.”

Chapter 30: The Bathroom Waiter

Chapter Notes

Thank you for the idea qin (niquillua)!

Parker was sitting on the toilet in the backstage bathroom of the Las Vegas NHL Awards.

He was a waiter. For one of the catering companies, one of those fancy ones where the trays had more garnishes than he had ever seen in his life and people ate tiny bites while nodding solemnly like they understood what “umami” meant.

And he had eaten something that did not agree with him.

Everything hurt. Every nerve, every inch of his digestive tract was convinced he had committed a crime against nature.

He had tried to rationalize it and looked online.

Maybe it was lactose. Maybe it was gluten. Maybe he was dying from a very rare disease that affected only people whose names were Parker.

All he knew for sure was that if he moved wrong, the world would end in a catastrophic splatter of humiliation.

He was gripping the toilet paper like a life preserver, reading a pamphlet someone had left on the counter: “Sustainable Caviar Practices” which was now very hard to focus on because gravity and shame were fighting a duel in his intestines.

Then he heard it.

The door handle rattled.

The door to the men's guest bathroom that was strictly forbidden to staff. If the boss found out… Well, he might not survive this night anyway.

Parker froze.

He held everything in. Literally. He lifted his feet onto the trash can to make himself invisible from outside. That did not feel nice, but he had to try.

The door opened.

And someone stepped in.

Parker did not move. He did not breathe more than necessary. He imagined a tiny camera in the ceiling broadcasting this moment to the world, because clearly that was what fate had decided he was the punchline of this entire awards ceremony.

A man walked to the sink.

Parker could hear the faint rustle of tuxedo fabric and the subtle click of cufflinks on the marble counter.

Then the door again.

And a voice.

“Well?” it said.

Parker was already questioning every single life choice that had led him to pooping in the NHL Awards bathroom like a secret agent.

There was a pause.

“Well what?” said another voice, lower, more exasperated.

Parker squinted at the small gap under the stall door. He tried to figure out who was speaking.

Was it… a nominee? A parent? A former player? He didn’t recognize the voice yet. Honestly, at this point, he was too busy holding onto his dignity and praying that the toilet seat did not suddenly betray him.

There was a slight shuffle, a whisper, a sharp inhale, a very deliberate… pause.

Then with a hint of… Russian, “Are you not going to suck my dick?”

He had to bite his lips not to make a noise. He was mortified.

The first man answered rapidly, “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”

He did not want to hear this. He did not want to exist. He could feel sweat trickle down his back.

He missed the next exchange because of his mental health crisis.

He came back just in time to hear “You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.”

Parker froze mid-breath again.

Hollander?

Wait.

Parker’s brain began the frantic calculation mode that only comes from people trying to hold in a catastrophic bathroom situation while also trying to process elite celebrity gossip.

Hollander. Canadian hockey player. Montreal golden-boy. Nominated tonight.

In a bathroom asking for… Damn celebrity really are something else.

Good for him, terrible for Parker.

Well, maybe not good for him either since the other guy just says no… That’s kind of mean.

Listen, he really doesn’t want to be here, he still feels like he is dying, but… still, that’s cold!

The voices continued. “No. I will not do anything to you in here. We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”

Great. So back to “good for you Hollander” but now please leave so that he can die in peace.

“You’re really going to leave me like this?”.

Parker almost yelled. Hollander was a great player, he liked him really, but now he was getting impatient. Just leave. Please.

“Yes. For now.”

“Fine” Hollander grumbled.

Thank god!

“Aw,” the other guy cooed with mock sympathy. “I will make a deal: if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you...whatever you want.”

Hollander was quick to answer “And if you win?”

Wait what? If he win?

Parker’s memory banks scrambled. Who else had been nominated tonight? There was the MVP shortlist: Hollander. Mitchell. Cartier. Rozanov…

Shit, that’s Rozanov!

“I will let you know.”

Oh my god, that’s definitely him.

And then, some noises.

His imagination filled in all the blanks. He didn’t want it to, but it did anyway.

And then finally, “Good luck tonight.”

The door clicked. Once. Twice.

Parker slowly exhaled. Carefully. He had survived. Barely.

He peeked under the stall.

No one. The bathroom was empty.

And then the mental replay began.

Rozanov. Hollander. MVP. Bathroom. Hotel room.

His mind literally could not process that he had just witnessed two of the most famous hockey players in the NHL Awards guest bathroom. Doing… things. Or at least talking about it.

He considered telling someone.

No. Right, NDA. Waiters weren’t supposed to be here. He did not exist in this bathroom. It had never happened. He would invent an alternate timeline where he had simply been… reading the pamphlet about sustainable caviar.

He sat in silence for a while.

Then he straightened his tie, wiped sweat off his forehead, washed his hands and left the bathroom.

And Parker, still sick and now traumatized, walked back to his tray of hors d’oeuvres with a quiet determination.

He will never eat the chef’s “extra spicy” miniature mac and cheese again.

Chapter 31: Extremely Professional Cleaner

Amy was paid to clean The Shane Hollander Montreal Penthouse.

Yes. Capital letters.

Not only was he basically Montreal royalty, he was also the easiest client the company had ever signed.

Amy had called dibs the minute he signed the paperwork.

She had gotten the job, yes definitely thanks to nepotism. Her mom was the director of the cleaning company. But Amy had also been working there since she was eighteen, so technically she was both qualified and related.

It was a very high-end cleaning company. Every employee had to sign multiple NDAs. They handled politicians, celebrities, tech millionaires, and once a prince who had broken three different vases in three different countries. Or at least that was the rumour.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but the pay was excellent and Amy could listen to music all day while cleaning.

The company also had rules, very strict rules.

Amy followed the guidebook like it was the Bible.

Rule number one was essentially “Do no harm.”

Rule number two was more important. “Do not notice anything.”

If you don’t notice things, you won’t judge them.

If you don’t judge them, you won’t feel tempted to talk about them.

And in this line of work, you were absolutely going to see things you were not supposed to see.

So Amy was extremely professional.

For example, she absolutely did not notice the second toothbrush that appeared in the bathroom one day.

Maybe Shane Hollander simply needed two toothbrushes. One for the top row of teeth, one for the bottom row.

Very reasonable. Completely normal.

She also did not notice that the toothpaste tube had suddenly started getting squeezed from the middle instead of the bottom, as a civilized human being would do.

She definitely did not notice the curly-hair shampoo that appeared in the shower.

Maybe Shane had gotten a perm.

Curly hair required a lot of maintenance, she knew that from experience. She had gotten a perm a few years ago and…

Well.

His hair still looked extremely straight at the next game.

Maybe it was helmet hair, the poor curls didn't survive.

Totally plausible.

One afternoon, she was cleaning the living room while dancing to “Hot To Go!” when she spotted a pair of underwear stuck behind one of the couch cushions.

Not her first rodeo, but the first one in this penthouse.

She put on gloves, retrieved the underwear, and placed it neatly in the laundry basket.

Very professional.

She did not notice that it wasn’t the brand Shane Hollander was famously an ambassador for.

Nope.

She was thinking only about Chappell Roan absolutely belting the chorus in her headphones.

Another day, she went to clean the windows.

They looked perfectly fine from afar, but sometimes the light hit the glass in just the right way, and suddenly everything appeared.

She saw one handprint first.

Then another.

Then she realized there were four.

It was a very… creative position to enjoy the view of downtown Montreal.

But Amy did not judge.

Amy did not think about it.

Amy was not allowed to, remember?

While cleaning the hallway one day, she noticed a pair of enormous hockey skates by the door.

That was normal.

What was less normal was the second pair beside them.

They were larger.

Maybe Shane Hollander simply owned two pairs of skates.

One for… left feet.

One for… right feet.

Amy did not think about it.

During the next few months, while cleaning the kitchen, she also did not notice:

• the second coffee mug with an Ottawa hockey team logo (traitor!)
• the jar of Russian black tea in the cupboard
  
  
• the massive hoodie hanging over a chair that was definitely not Hollander’s size
  
  
• the protein powder that could probably feed a horse
  
  
• the faint smell of dog on one of the blankets, even though Shane Hollander did not own a dog

Amy noticed none of this.

Because Amy was extremely professional.

Today, she was vacuuming the bedroom when the vacuum hit something under the bed.

She hooked it with the end of the vacuum and slowly dragged it out.

She stared.

Now she had two choices according to the company rulebook.

Option one: retrieve the object, clean it, and place it discreetly on the bedside table.

Option two: pretend she had done a terrible job and simply not vacuum under the bed, in order to spare the client any embarrassment.

Amy was a professional.

She hated leaving things unclean. But this felt like a situation where professionalism required… strategic ignorance.

Also, it felt extremely unsanitary.

And mortifying. For the client and her both.

So she gently pushed the object back under the bed with the vacuum head.

Now, the problem with pushing a cone-shaped object is that it tends to roll in a circle.

Amy watched in horror as it disappeared under the bed…

…and slowly rolled back toward her.

She hated physics.

She nudged it back again.

It came out again.

She tried using her foot.

It returned.

After several increasingly desperate attempts, it finally stayed under the bed.

Amy stood there for a moment, staring at the floor.

Then she continued vacuuming as if nothing had happened.

When she came back to the office that evening, her mom looked up from her desk.

“How did it go?”

Amy set down her bag.

“I was extremely professional today.” she said.

That was a well-known code phrase in their company.

It meant:

I saw some absolutely unbelievable things, and I legally cannot talk about them but it is killing me inside.

Her mom nodded sympathetically.

“Yes,” she said. “Even the best clients eventually make us very professional.”

Chapter 32: Airplaine Heroine

Cassie was bored.

All the grown-ups were sleeping.

She knew she was supposed to be sleeping too, but she was too bored for that. So she pretended to fall asleep and rolled into a small ball on her airplane seat.

Airplanes are boring.

Especially at night.

The big lights were off. Only the small lights on the floor were on now. She had never seen lights on the floor before. It was like a magic path to follow.

Maybe Cassie should follow it then.

A mission. Like all the heroes in her bedtime stories.

So she did.

Cassie was a hero too.

First, she had to fight the big belt around her. Her first trial.

She almost lost a finger in the terrible trap, but she succeeded. Of course she did. She was strong.

Next, getting to the magic path without waking the dragon.

He was taking all the space next to her, his head turned threateningly in her direction. His neck was in a strange position and his mouth was wide open, ready to breathe fire.

She took a deep breath.

She stepped lightly on the armrest, then on the tray table, and very gracefully jumped to the floor.

Cassie was a ninja, a fairy, an acrobat!

She did it!

Now the path.

Once she stepped on it, she saw it went two directions.

One went to a dark hallway with a bathroom light glowing at the end.

Boring.

The other went through a curtain.

Oh. A curtain to another world maybe?

Cassie chose this one. Of course.

She rolled under the curtain with a somersault. More discreet that way. She learned how to do one last week and she was very proud of it.

Behind it were rows of big seats.

Still no lights. Everyone sleeping.

Boooooooring.

Wait, a light is coming from one of the seats.

Let’s see.

Cassie crawled her way to the front row.

Yes! Someone was on a phone and not sleeping.

She jumped up.

The guy made a sound very similar to her dog’s toys: a squeak.

He had both hands raised in front of him like he was trying to protect himself from something.

She frowned and looked behind her.

Nothing was there.

Was he afraid of the dark? She should ask.

“You’re afraid of the dark?”

He looked even more afraid now.

Weird guy.

She should ask again.

“Do you see monsters?”

He started looking around frantically and muttered, “Oh God. Please tell me someone else is seeing her…”

“Seeing who?”

“You!”

“Me?”

“Yes!”

“No one sees me.”

He made a desperate noise.

Which was silly because it was true. No one saw her. They were all sleeping.

“What are you doing?”

“Having a nightmare apparently.”

Cassie nodded solemnly.

It happens. Not to her of course because she was a big girl, but her brother had lots of nightmares.

“We can check under your seat for monsters if you want.”

A pause.

“You think there might be more like you?”

“Like what?”

“Demonic children.”

She was not even going to answer that. Silly man.

“What are you listening to?”

“A book. About hockey.”

“Can I listen with you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s for grown-ups.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s about adult things.”

“Why?”

“Because… people like adult things?”

“Why?”

He looked ready to cry.

Fun.

“Where is your mom?”

“I don’t have a mom.”

“Oh… sorry… Where is your dad?”

“I don’t have a dad.”

“Oh God. Who is here with you then?”

“Mommy and Daddy.”

A pause.

He looked tired now. Maybe he should be sleeping like the others. 

“So… mom and dad?”

“No. Mommy and Daddy.”

“Right, that's so different... Go back to them anyway.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

Oh.

He was gooooood. She almost didn't notice!

But she was better.

Cassie made her eyes very big and started to make her lips shake a little.

“Oh no no no! Right. Do you want…” He looked around quickly. “…a candy?”

“I can’t take candy from a stranger.”

“Right. Of course. That’s a great rule. Don’t do that. Ever.”

“Thanks. Can I have the candy now?”

The face he makes is just so funny! The curtain path was a great choice.

“...Sure.”

He gave her a small biscuit in a plastic wrapper.

“That’s not a candy.”

“That’s all I have.”

Boooooring.

Cassie ate it anyway but she should let him know.

“You’re boring.”

He looked deeply offended.

“I’m the least boring person you will ever meet!”

“I met Mulan at Disney World.”

A pause.

He seemed to consider that. He shouldn't, that's a fact.

“You might be right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

He stared at her for a moment, then suddenly took his phone. 

Is he pretending she's not here anymore?

Rude. That's not going to happen, she's on a mission!

“What are you doing?”

“Texting my… boyfriend?”

“Why are you not sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“You said boyfriend with a weird voice.”

“And don’t have a weird voice!”

“You do.”

“You are a mean kid.”

“So… what are you texting your boyfriend?”

“Don’t say that so loud!”

“You are louder than me. Are you hiding him?”

“No! Yes! …Maybe ?”

They are both whispering now. She likes it, it’s more fun like that.

“This is stupid…”

“You are stupid.”

“You’re the mean one now. To a child.”

Cassie did her big eyes again.

“…Sorry”

“Why are you hiding him?”

“Because grown-ups don’t always like it when two men or two women are dating each other. It’s difficult... And we are now even dating!”

Ah, grown-ups... They are always complicating things!

“This is stupid…again.”

“This time you are right.”

“I’m always right.”

He just sighs, looking tired and starts to text again.

Maybe that's her mission, making him look happier?

“What are you texting him?”

“That kids are scaring me.”

“Why?”

“Too many whys.”

“Mommy says it’s good to be curious and ask questions.”

“Your mommy is a saint.”

“No. She’s a nurse.”

“Yes. Exactly. A saint.”

He is weird. Just like the other grown-ups. But at least he is interesting.

“Why you don’t have a girlfriend if it’s easier?”

He blinked.

“Because I want this one as a boyfriend.”

“But why?”

He shrugged.

“He is better than any girlfriend.”

She waited. She needs more than that. That's booooring.

He finally answered very seriously, “He is also the prettiest.”

“Oh.”

Ok it’s becoming interesting. Finallyyyyyy.

“And very smart, annoyingly smart. He knows everything. Statistics, contracts, hockey, politics, taxes…”

“What is taxes?”

“Money people take from you for stupid reasons.”

“Oh.”

“And he pretends he is grumpy but he is not really. He just… thinks a lot.”

He smiled a little at nothing.

She feels like he forgot that she was here. He definitely forgot to whisper for a while now.

He is a terrible mission partner.

“And he has freckles!”

Cassie considered this information very carefully.

“So you found a fairy tale princess… But it’s a prince.”

The man blinked again.

“…what?”

“Like Belle.”

“Belle?”

“Yes. In Beauty and the Beast. She’s very smart.”

He frowned.

She pointed at him.

“So you are the Beast.”

“I am not the...”

“You are big and loud.”

“I am not!”

“And he is the prettiest prince.”

“…that is actually true but…”

“So you are the ugly Beast.”

He said a word.

It wasn’t English but she knew what it was.

“You said a bad word.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes you did. You said a bad word.”

“Oh, so you speak Russian now?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it’s a bad word?”

“Is it a bad word?”

He seemed to deflate. She got him!

“…yes.”

“So you have a bad word tax.”

Cassie learn quick, Mommy and Daddy are very proud of that.

She held up her hand.

And waited.

And waited longer. This is embarrassing. For him of course.

“You don’t have money, do you?”

He looks very confused, “Why would I give you money?!”

“Because you said a bad word.”

He said it again.

Cassie kept holding up her hand.

“You need to give me two money now.”

He reached into his backpack while muttering, “You don’t even make any sense.”

He finally found his wallet.

“Here. I don’t have change.”

She took the twenty-dollar bill. That was not the deal...

“I need two money, not one.”

“That’s not how it works…”

She held her hand up again.

“…Right.”

Another twenty-dollar bill.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

At that moment, a flight attendant came through the curtain.

“Oh, I’m sorry young lady, you’re not supposed to be here. How about I take you back to your parents?”

“No.”

The man snorted.

Cassie knew it, they were becoming friends now!

“Oh, that wasn’t a proposition. You need to go back to your parents now.”

“Okay…”

She had no choice.

The evil witch had found her.

“Oh thank fuc… fudge!” the man blurted.

Cassie had barely started to raise her hand before he was already reaching for another bill.

Good, he was also a quick learner then.

She was a bit sad to leave.

He was fun.

“I hope you will have a fairytale ending. They are the best!”

“…Thank you. Goodnight.”

He was smiling softly. He was also sad to see her go, she was sure of it.

Cassie went back to her seat with sixty dollars and a very successful mission.

She had saved the Beast from boredom.

Chapter 33: Barber

Being a barber is not something most people would call remarkable.

At least, that’s what Oliver has always thought.

He’s been doing this for more than thirty years now, and most days are simple. Some clients want to talk about their jobs, their families, the weather, the latest game. Others stay glued to their phones. Some just stare blankly at the ceiling, counting the

minutes until they can leave.

It’s a bit of everything and Oliver likes to think he’s good at all of it.

Adapting, that’s the real skill, not the scissors or the clippers, but people.

He learned that the hard way.

When his son got his autism diagnosis, Oliver felt two things at once: relief, and fear. Relief, because finally things made sense. Fear, because the world suddenly looked too loud, too bright, too unpredictable for his son. Too much.

Even something as simple as a haircut. The first time his son let him try Oliver had been so careful his hands had shaken. It took forever. Way longer than any haircut should. But it didn’t end in tears like before.

That felt like a victory.

So he learned.

He learned how to keep the cape from brushing against the neck.

How to catch every falling hair before it could stick to skin.

How to angle the dryer so the sound wouldn’t hit too sharply.

How to use products that didn’t smell like anything at all.

He learned patience in a way no training ever teaches.

And word spread.

At first, it was other kids from the same association. Then friends of friends. Then adults who just… didn’t feel comfortable in regular salons. Too much noise. Too much light. Too many expectations for small talks.

That’s how, one day, Yuna Hollander walked into his shop with her eight-year-old son.

The kid had a hockey jersey two sizes too big and a haircut that very loudly said someone tried at home and lost the battle.

Oliver had assumed it was the mother. It wasn’t.

Apparently, Shane hated long hair but hated hair salons even more. So his father had been doing what he could with kitchen scissors. It showed.

Shane hadn’t said much that first day. He sat stiff in the chair, shoulders high, eyes darting, while his mother spoke softly beside him, grounding him word by word.

Oliver had gone slow, slower than usual. Slower than necessary maybe.

And when it was done, Shane had looked… lighter. Not just cleaner or neater but relieved.

That was fifteen years ago.

Now Shane Hollander is…well. Oliver isn’t blind. He knows exactly who sits in his chair every few months. Ottawa still claims him a little, even if the rest of the country calls him Montreal’s golden boy.

But to Oliver, he’s still that kid.

At first, Shane used to sit very still, hands gripping the armrests. Then, over the years, he loosened. His mother stopped coming. He started talking, small things, careful things. Asking about Oliver’s family. Mentioning games, but never too much.

Always a little shy. Always a little guarded.

But he trusted and that’s what mattered.

He trusted Oliver to move around him without warning. To touch his hair without asking every second. To know, instinctively, when something was too much and adjust before Shane even had to say it.

Trust like that isn’t loud, it builds quietly, appointment after appointment.

A 30-minute maximum haircut and Shane would leave with enough scent-free shampoo and conditioner until the next appointment.

For years, it stayed the same. Until, it didn’t.

Oliver noticed before he understood.

Shane started bringing his phone out more often. At first, just checking it. Then keeping it in his hand. Then smiling at it every time a new text came.

Soft smiles, like something private.

Sometimes he’d blush, properly blush all the way to the ears. He would quickly tilt the screen away, like Oliver had any interest in reading over his shoulder.

He didn’t ask, he just cut his hair.

He noticed the name, “Lily.”

Oliver had smiled to himself and didn’t say anything.

He especially didn’t say anything when, over time, it became very clear that “Lily” was not a shy, cute girl.

“Lily” was a confident boy. Teasing. A menace, judging by the messages Oliver accidentally, very unintentionally, caught glimpses of.

Also, with terrible grammar.

Oliver had nearly laughed more than once.

He didn’t say anything when he spotted the faint mark of a hickey while fastening the cape one day.

That one had been difficult.

He’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

He didn’t say anything when Shane started asking to keep his hair a little longer.

That one, he adjusted carefully. Longer but not enough to become a sensory problem. Not enough to brush too much against the neck.

A compromise. Shane looked relieved after that first new cut and Oliver felt very proud of himself.

He didn’t say anything when Shane, very casually, asked about shampoo for curly hair.

Shane, who had the straightest hair Oliver had ever seen.

Oliver had simply nodded, walked him through a few options, and patted his shoulder like it was the most normal request in the world.

He didn’t say anything when Shane showed him pictures of a deck he was repairing and swiped one photo too far.

Just one but long enough for him.

Two men on the deck. Close, comfortable and smiling like no one was watching.

Oliver knew hockey well enough, he recognized the other man immediately.

Shane had panicked, of course. Talked fast. Too fast. Words tripping over each other as he scrambled back to safer ground.

Oliver had just nodded along and said nothing.

Because that’s what trust looks like, too.

Not asking and not pushing.

So when, one summer afternoon, the bell above the door rang and a tall blond man with very familiar features stepped inside… Oliver simply smiled and asked what he could do for him.

No reaction. No recognition.

Even if it was Ilya Rozanov standing in his small Ottawa shop like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The man sat and talked.

He laughed easily, very confident in his skin. Very different from Shane and yet, somehow, it made sense.

Oliver got to work.

He did compliment the curls. Mentioned the quality of his shampoo, how well it hydrated the hair and how defined the texture was. He allowed himself a small, private moment of pride, his shampoo was a good recommendation apparently.

He still didn’t say anything, not until the very end.

Rozanov stood at the counter, reaching for his wallet, still chatting, still bright and open.

Oliver rang him up, then paused, just briefly.

Casual and gentle, the way he always is.

“You might want to take one of the scent-free shampoos as well,” he said, like it was an afterthought. “Shane’s probably running low.”

Silence, just for a second.

Oh.

That was worth it!

The flush climbed fast, all the way up Rozanov’s neck, blooming bright and unmistakable.

Oliver kept his expression perfectly neutral.

Apparently, making a Russian blush was a rare achievement.

He didn’t mention it when Shane came back a few weeks later.

Didn’t say a word.

But when Shane sat in the chair, relaxed and just a little softer around the edges than he used to be, Oliver caught his eye in the mirror and gave him a small smile.

Nothing more.

He wouldn’t embarrass him.

He wouldn’t say it out loud, but he was very happy for him.

Chapter 34: Ice Cream Girl

Tonight is incredibly hot.

Lucía smells like churros. Her shoes squeak every time she moves because she stepped in something four hours ago and never found the time to clean it. Her hair is sticking to the back of her neck.

It’s a terrible day.

Lucía hates this day with all the energy she has left.

Which is unfortunate, because she has no energy left.

Her shift has been horrible. Too many tourists. Too many crying children. Too much melted ice cream dripping on the counter, on the floor, on her hands.

She keeps looking at the clock like she can force time to move faster.

Thirty minutes left.

She can do thirty minutes.

She will do thirty minutes.

She is staring at the door, silently begging the universe not to send anyone else…and of course, two men stop right in front of it.

She looks at the clock.

Twenty-five minutes left.

Of course.

The dark-haired one opens the door just enough to lean in.

“Hi, is it still open to buy something to eat?”

Lucía closes her eyes for half a second.

A sigh escapes from her soul.

Her English is bad, but not bad enough that she couldn’t understand him.

Also, he is polite. That helps a little.

Before she can answer, a second head appears above his shoulder, a blond one, peeking in with what can only be described as illegal levels of puppy eyes.

Lucía squints.

Is that real, or is she hallucinating from the heat?

“Buenas noches… sí, pueden entrar…”

She is supposed to sound cheerful and welcoming. That’s what her manager says.

But jokes on him, she was alone and no one could tell on her.

Her coworker had already left because she apparently had a very important date with a Polish guy she met yesterday while he was buying ice cream. The fact that she ends up with a date in the 5 minutes it took to make the ice cream cone was impressive enough that she agrees to stay alone tonight. Some people are lucky.

They come in and Lucía watches them take a small table.

She squeaks her way over, menu in hand.

“No churros,” she says. “Ya es demasiado tarde.”

They stare at her.

Right.

She exhales.

“No churros… too late. Ice cream yes.”

This is, technically, a lie.

It is never too late for churros.

But she will not spend one more second of her life near hot oil tonight.

They just smile and nod.

Good.

She goes back behind the counter and stares into the void.

Peace and silence… until she turns her head and almost jumps out of her skin.

The puppy eyes one is suddenly right there, holding the menu, smiling as if he had never known suffering in his life.

“Hi! Two ice creams, one chocolate and bubblegum, and one just strawberry.”

Lucía stares at him.

There is no doubt in her mind that he is the one eating the bubblegum-chocolate monstrosity.

His smile is too wide. Too proud.

“Ok…” she says.

He nods, still smiling, and goes back to the table.

Weirdo.

Lucía takes her time.

They didn’t specify cone or cup, so she chose for them.

Cup.

Because cones are in the back, and she is not going to the back again. Not tonight.

She starts scooping slowly, watching them through the glass.

They look exhausted. Sunburnt. Like they’ve been walking all day under a merciless Barcelona sun during a heat wave.

Idiots.

But they look… happy.

They keep talking softly. Laughing. Showing each other things on their phones. Their knees bump under the table and neither of them moves away.

Lucía feels suddenly, violently single.

She stopped staring at them longingly only when the ice cream started melting on her fingers.

“Mierda…”

She grabs a napkin and moves around the counter, but before she can even reach them, the dark-haired one jumps to his feet.

“No, no, don’t move, I can take it!”

He takes both cups from her hands, careful, quick, like he doesn’t want her to do any extra work.

Lucía stares at him.

She hates them. She hates how nice they are when she just wants to wallow in her solitude.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late.” he adds, already backing away. “My friend and I will be quick!”

She nods slowly, still processing, as he hurries back to the table.

She keeps watching them, instead of starting to clean.

Of course, the blond one takes the bubblegum abomination.

Damn, they look good together. It’s actually offensive.

She doesn’t know if she is jealous of their relationship with each other or if she wants to be with one of them.

No, let’s be honest, probably with both of them.

She narrows her eyes.

Wait.

“My friend and I”

Lucía feels something inside her snap.

My friend?

No.

No, absolutely not.

She straightens.

Does he think she is blind?

Is he blind?

If they are just friends, then love is a lie. Romance is dead. Everything is meaningless.

She will riot.

She will physically push their heads together until they kiss, like she used to do with her Barbies when Ken was being useless.

She is getting angry now.

Actually angry.

She fixes them with a stare.

A hard stare. A glare even.

They both freeze mid-bite, two spoons, suspended in the air.

Slowly, they look at her.

Lucía does not blink.

How dare they?

How dare they sit there, knees touching, looking handsome, smiling like that, sharing ice cream on a tiny table in the warm evening like this is not the most romantic thing she has ever seen…

…and call each other friends?

No respect.

No compassion for the tired, overworked, single people of the world. Not compassion for all the poor single soul around the world who spend their Saturday evening in a dirty ice cream shop instead of going on a date with their soulmate.

Did they think about them?

They start to eat faster, still looking at her. They look scared.

Good.

They should, she is dehydrated, sticky, tired and a helpless romantic. That’s not a good combo for the two bros that can’t even be bothered to kiss even if they absolutely should.

Her thoughts are unraveling.

She can feel it. She's still glaring at them, wide-eyed, not blinking.

She tightens her grip around the ice cream scoop. She is furious.

The blond one glances at the scoop.

Then back at her.

Then back at the scoop in her hand, like it’s will soon be used to take out his eyes.

Maybe he is smart after all.

“Hum,” the polite one says carefully, “I think we are done.”

Brave.

Very brave of him to still talk to her after telling her about his friend.

“Right,” the blond one adds quickly, already pulling out way too many bills from his wallet without looking. “We… we’ll just leave the money on the table and go.”

Smart.

Very smart.

They stand up slowly and back away from the table.

Never turning their backs to her.

Lucía continues staring.

The dark-haired one hesitates, “Wait, we should throw the cups…”

The blond one grabs his hand, “No. No, let’s run.”

They run.

Actually run.

The bell above the door rings wildly as they escape into the night.

Silence falls.

Lucía stands there for a moment, scoop still clenched in her hand.

Then she walks to the window.

Outside, the street is dim, lit by a flickering streetlamp.

She sees them, further up the street.

She sees them, bent over, hands on their knees, laughing breathlessly.

She sees them, looking at each other, smiling.

She sees them, finally kissing.

Lucía blinks.

Oh.

Oh.

She exhales.

Slowly.

Calmly.

She goes back to the sink and starts washing the scoop.

Well.

She still believes in love, after all.

Idiots.

Chapter 35: Bookstore Employee

Chapter Notes

This chapter was inspired by an idea suggested by HedgehogDK in a comment! Thanks again!

Chloe and Marta have been BFFW (Best-Friends-From-Work) for the past four years.

They met when Chloe moved to Ottawa after a truly catastrophic breakup, the kind where you don’t just lose a person, you lose the version of your life you thought you were building. She didn’t know anyone in the city, had no plan, and if she’s being honest, no real desire to make one.

Her only comfort back then had been this bookstore.

Small, a little cluttered, smelling permanently of paper and coffee, with a front window display that never quite matched the season, always one holiday late. Chloe used to come in almost every day and leave with an armful of romance novels she absolutely could not afford.

Marta had taken one look at her with her puffy eyes, clutching three paperbacks like emotional support, and decided: yes, this one is mine now.

They’d spent an entire afternoon talking about books. Tropes, favorite authors, and which fictional men were worth ruining your life over. At some point, Marta had disappeared into the back room, come back with tea, and casually offered her a job.

The bookstore definitely did not need two employees.

But sometimes, Marta had said, having someone to talk to is more important than making money.

It’s a terrible business plan, but Chloe had never left.

Since then, their routine had settled into something dangerously close to perfect. They talked about the latest romance release, the best gossip in town, where they should go for the next brunch… and obviously, they talked about their customer. Not in a mean way. Never intrusive. Just… speculative.

A person’s book choices said so much about them. It would be a waste not to discuss it.

And some customers were truly worth entire afternoons of analysis.

Like most bookstores nowadays, their clients are mostly… middle-aged at best. It’s hard to compete with Amazon. But one of the best things about Chloe and Marta is that they will go above and beyond to find the perfect book for their regulars.

For Chloe, her favourite customer was Mrs. Pietry.

She wants cookbooks. Only cookbooks. From anywhere in the world.

Language? Irrelevant. Apparently, her grandson had introduced her to Google Translate, and now nothing could stop her.

Chloe had taken responsibility for her and treated it like a personal quest, finding the most obscure, niche, geographically confusing cookbooks possible.

In return, Mrs. Pietry brought them desserts.

Not just any desserts, but the most delicious experimental desserts.

Last week, it had been something fried, filled with cream and nuts, and aggressively dusted with sugar.

Chloe had eaten three, for research of course.

All of which is to say, when the bell above the door rang one quiet afternoon, Chloe was absolutely not prepared for what walked in.

A young and attractive man. Very attractive.

Tall, soft dark hair, the kind of face that looked unfairly gentle until you noticed the tension in his shoulders. Dressed in athleisure.

Chloe blinked.

Jackpot? Maybe.

She had recently been considering the idea of dating again and this felt like a sign.

She rushed to the entrance, putting on her best customer smile.

“Hi, welcome to “Chapter 1”! I’m Chloe, and I would be incredibly happy to help you. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

…Incredibly happy? Why would she say that?

That was too much. That was so much.

Abort. Abort. She needs to calm the fuck down, now.

“Uh, hi,” he said, a little surprised. “I’m Shane. I’m just looking around, but thank you.”

Okay. Fine. Normal. She could recover from this.

Chloe smiled, nodded, and turned to go back to the counter.

“Wait no, actually… I might need some help.”

Yes.

Yes.

She did a full celebratory dance in her head.

“Oh! Sure, I’d be incredibly happy to help you! What are you looking for?”

…She had just said the same thing again.

Incredible. Truly.

“Well, it’s… kind of specific,” Shane said shily. “I’m not sure how to find it. I tried online, but…”

“Ooh, a challenge! I love that!”

Forget about the cute guy, she has a mission now and she loves that even more!

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, still looking unsure. “It might be.”

The stretch made his arm look positively delicious…

No, no, Chloe, focus!

“Don’t worry,” she said, going back to full problem-solving mode. “That’s literally our specialty. Tell me everything.”

“So… a friend of mine used to have this book. Well, his mom used to read it to him. Every night. But it’s not really, like… a nice bedtime story for children? And it’s in Russian?”

“…you’re not sure if it’s in Russian?” Chloe asked carefully.

“No, no it’s in Russian,” he corrected quickly. “Sorry. I just…do you think you could find something not in English?”

Chloe straightened.

“I can find anything,” she said.

Then, narrowing her eyes slightly, she added “But I am going to need more than that.”

They ended up spending two full hours in the little reading corner.

At some point, Chloe brought out the last of Mrs. Pietry’s latest dessert experiment, something chocolate and mango from Senegal, and they ate it while building a list.

She did suggest, briefly, that maybe the friend could come in and describe the book himself.

Shane shut that down immediately.

“It’s a gift,” he said. “I want it to be a surprise.”

Chloe did not say anything.

But internally?

Her romantic little heart was having a moment.

The list ended up looking like this:

• His mom read it to him every night until he was about seven (cute!)
• His father decided he was “too old” after that (asshole dad alert)
• The book “disappears” after the mom died (she is going to cry)
• The book was already old back then (so the USSR era?)
• Hard cover, kind of gold, no illustrations (will be hard to find with just this description)
• Yellow-ish pages, smell old (she loves this scent…)
• Multiple stories, at least ten (that’s probably a good clue)
• His mom had heard the same stories as a child (she needs to look at old fairytale maybe?)
• Some of the stories were… not very child-friendly and more nightmare-inducing (great for a bedtime story)
• No pictures, just dense text (boooring)

Chloe stared at the list.

Then at Shane.

Then back at the list.

“Ok,” she said slowly. “Ok, I can do it.”

It still took her hours to find it.

Old catalogs. Archived listings. A forum that looked like it hadn’t been updated since 2003.

But when she found it, she knew.

Народные русские сказки — Афанасьев.

1957 edition.

Dense. Minimal. Not even remotely designed for children.

Perfect!

She called Shane immediately.

He came in the next morning.

Chloe showed him a photo first, just to be sure.

The moment he saw it, something in his expression shifted, subtle, but unmistakable.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think that’s it.”

They went through some of the stories together from the Wikipedia pages.

Most of them blurred together, strange names, stranger plots, but then Chloe mentioned one:

“Марья Моревна.”

Shane stilled.

“…yeah,” he said after a second. “That one. Ily… my friend said that was his favorite.”

Chloe leaned her chin on her hand and clicked on the link.

“Hum… so it’s a story about a powerful warrior woman, Marya Morevna, and her husband. It’s about making a huge mistake and fighting for your love, no matter the distance or danger so that you can be reunited,” she said. “Very romantic.”

Shane didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze had drifted, somewhere past the shelves, past the window where the morning light filtered in. Dust floated in the air between them, catching gold. He looked like a prince from a fairy tale.

“He keeps trying,” Shane said quietly. “He keeps tying even with the danger, just to go back to his love.”

Ah.

There it was.

Chloe had been working in this bookstore long enough to recognize a love story when it was sitting right in front of her.

Even if the people involved hadn’t said it out loud yet.

He didn’t ask for the price.

Not even when she explained it was a three-volume set coming straight from a collector in Russia.

If anything, he looked happy about it and ready to pay whatever it took.

It took her two weeks to successfully negotiate with the collector, and by the time it arrived, summer was starting to fade at the edges.

When Shane came back to pick it up, Chloe had already wrapped the books carefully in brown paper.

She placed them on the counter.

And then, after a brief pause, Chloe added another one on top.

“This one’s on the house,” she said lightly. “I thought you might like it.”

Shane looked down.

A dual-language edition. Russian on one side, English on the other.

"You know, something to read together maybe?"

He swallowed and nodded slightly, with watery eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, “I can’t wait to share it with him”.

Chloe watched him leave, the bell ringing softly behind him.

She didn’t say anything about the way he talked about his “friend.”

Didn’t mention the way his entire face changed when he spoke about that story.

Didn’t point out that he looked like all the love-sick heroes from her romance book. 

Later that evening, Marta found her behind the counter, flipping through a huge book.

“Research?” Marta asked.

“Obviously!” Chloe said.

Marta glanced at the page. “Ah. Tragic love, repeated suffering, questionable decision-making. Your favorite.”

Chloe smiled faintly.

“What can I say?” she said. “I have a type.”

She did not mention to Shane that she had bought two copies of the dual-language edition.

Chloe has a weakness for all love stories.

Chapter 36: Bookstore Owner

Chapter Notes

This chapter is inspired by a comment from ImAtTheCottage and served as the perfect follow-up to the chapter about the Bookstore Employee. Thank you for the idea of Ilya trying to buy a book for Shane!

Marta loves books.

That was her first love, her only love really. After two terrible divorces, she doesn’t need anything else in her life, just a good story and a cup of tea.

That's why she decided one day to buy the old bookstore of her childhood and make it her home. And the home of anyone who might need the peace brought by a good story.

That’s how she met Chloe, distressed by a bad breakup and in desperate need of the warm hug of soul-altering love from romance books.

They quickly became a dream team in the bookstore. Maybe hiring someone when she was already tight on money was not the best plan, but she never regretted it. Chloe was a blessing for all their customer and their very specific need. It takes time to find the right story for everyone, and Marta needed the help.

Some customers take more time than others, like Mr. Martin.

Mr. Martin only read ghost stories. Not just horror, all ghost stories. Tragic hauntings, romantic hauntings, existential hauntings, animal hauntings… and, to Marta’s ongoing distress, occasionally very explicit hauntings.

Marta once spent three weeks tracking down a very specific out-of-print paranormal smut book for him.

Mr. Martin always paid in exact cash, always said thank you, and always left with a book tucked neatly under his arm. Perfectly normal.

Except for the way he looked at people over his half-moon glasses.

Marta got a chill every single time he walked in. For her own peace of mind, she had decided never to question it.

The bell rang but Marta didn’t look up immediately. She was in the middle of unpacking a box of new arrivals and silently judging a cover that had absolutely no right being that ugly.

But then she heard it, a voice too loud for the peaceful atmosphere of her cute bookstore.

“Hello, I'm Ilya! It’s open? I saw the sign but sometimes people forget to flip and then go for walks or for food and…”

Marta looked up to stop the rambling man.

She took him in.

Tall, blond, broad shoulders, and bright eyes that moved too fast, like he was taking in everything at once.

Ah. Definitely Golden retriever energy.

They can be absolutely adorable or so tiresome. She doesn’t have an opinion on him yet.

“Unless I'm a ghost,” Marta said, deadpan, “yes, we’re open.”

Damn, she really needs to stop thinking about Mr. Martin.

He blinked, then grinned, delighted by her answer.

“Good. I do not think ghost would be good for helping me.”

“Depends,” Marta said. “We have a regular who might disagree.”

Ilya made his way further into the store, looking around with open curiosity, running his fingers along spines, tilting his head at titles, picking things up and putting them down like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Marta watched him for approximately twelve seconds before deciding that this man had a mission and no plan.

Her favorite kind.

“So,” she said stepping in “What are you actually looking for?”

He turned to her immediately, like he’d been waiting.

“Yes. I need a book.”

“Incredible start.”

“But it has to be… impossible?”

Marta crossed her arms.

“Oh, I like you already. Go on.”

“I have a friend,” he said. “He reads only hockey books.”

Marta blinked.

“Only?”

“Only,” Ilya confirmed. “Biography, history, tactics, anything, but only hockey. Always hockey.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“He is exhausting,” the man said, with what was very clearly fondness disguised as complaint.

Marta narrowed her eyes and filed that away.

“And you want?”

“I want something he has not read.”

Marta let out a slow breath.

“That’s not impossible,” she said. “That’s a challenge.”

He lit up.

“Yes!”

They started simple. Very simple, maybe too simple for this mission.

Marta pulled out obscure NHL biographies, out-of-print coaching manuals, and even a very questionable self-published book about “mental breakdown in hockey”.

He rejected all of them immediately.

“He has read.”

“All of these?” Marta demanded.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“I am very sure.”

“…Is he crazy?”

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

“No?”

Marta smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Okay,” she said. “We need to go deeper.”

They went deeper thanks to her computer.

European leagues.

Minor league histories.

Russian hockey archives.

At some point, Marta saw a picture of a book so old it looked like it might disintegrate if you breathed on it wrong.

She opened the link of the scanned pages on the website and showed it to Ilya.

The cover was worn. The title in Cyrillic, faded but still legible.

The man went still.

“It’s a biography,” Marta said. “Soviet-era. Center player. Very good. Very dramatic life apparently.”

“…It’s in Russian,” he said.

“Yes, unfortunately I can't find any translation.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, “I can read it.”

Marta raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

He looked at the book again, then at her.

“I can translate maybe?”

And there it was.

Not just a solution, but a project.

Marta leaned forward.

“You’re going to translate an entire book,” she said, “for your friend.”

“Yes.”

“For free.”

“Yes.”

“Without telling him.”

“Yes.”

Marta stared at him, then nodded once.

“Good,” she said. “We’re doing that.”

And that’s how it started.

He came back the next day with a laptop.

“I cannot do this at home,” he explained, already setting up in the reading corner.

“Why not?”

“We live together in the summer.”

Marta paused mid-step.

“The friend.”

“Yes.”

Marta took a slow breath and sat down across from him.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s establish something.”

He blinked.

“You are either the most committed friend I have ever seen,” she continued, “or you are in love with him.”

Silence.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“I…”

“Careful,” Marta said calmly. “I charge extra for lies.”

He still tried, he really did.

“I just…he likes hockey…”

“Everyone likes something,” Marta cut in. “Not everyone translates a book about it for a friend.”

“I wanted it to be special…”

“Mm.”

“He deserves…”

Marta held up a hand.

“Stop.”

He stopped.

She leaned back, studying him.

“I don’t need his name,” she said. “I don’t want his name. Whatever this is…” she gestured vaguely between them, at the laptop, at the whole ridiculous situation “...you keep it secret.”

He nodded, a little relieved.

“But,” she added, pointing at him, “do not insult my intelligence and please do something about it, I hate pining.”

After that, things became… routine.

During this summer, he came in a few times a week when the friend was busy. Then, starting in September, he came more often.

Probably when he’s feeling lonely at home.

But always with too much energy that he tried, and failed, to contain.

Marta didn't have the heart to tell him that technically, she sells books, not a workspace for translating obscure Soviet biographies.

But Marta helped where she could.

Not with the Russian, that was all him, but with everything else like formatting, fonts, how to structure a translation so it didn’t look like a crime against literature and how to eventually print and bind the whole thing into something that looked like a real book.

“Margins,” she told him once, slapping a printed page down. “If you give this to him with those margins, he will break up with you.”

“I am not dating him!”

“Fix the margins, Ilya.”

He listens to her. Good boy.

Mrs. Pietry’s desserts became part of the process.

Every week, something new appeared on the counter.

If Mrs. Pietry has been asked to experiment with Russian pastries, that's just because Marta wanted to try it, nothing to do with the Russian golden retriever in the old armchair in the corner.

Ilya ate all of it.

“No fear.” Marta observed once.

“Of what?”

“Death by diabetes?”

“I'm an athlete!”

“That’s even worse you know…”

Sometimes, while he worked, he talked.

“He does this thing,” Ilya said one afternoon, not looking up from his screen. “When he reads. He forgets everything else.”

Marta hummed.

“Dangerous.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed softly. “And he has very cute glasses.”

“So a cute nerd?”

“Yes… a sexy one!”

Weeks passed, then months.

The translation grew page by page, chapter by chapter.

“Christmas,” Ilya said one day, out of nowhere. “I will give it to him at Christmas.”

Marta looked up.

“That’s your deadline?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know!”

The last time he came in before the holidays, the book was done.

Printed and bound.

Imperfect, but real.

He held it like it was fragile, even though it wasn’t.

Marta nodded.

“Not bad.” she said.

He smiled shyly but also hopefully.

At the door, Ilya hesitated.

“Thank you…” he said.

Marta waved it off.

“Bring him in one day,” she said casually. “I want to see if he’s worth all this trouble.”

Ilya laughed.

“He is.”

Marta watched him go and waited until the door closed.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I figured.”

Later, Chloe came back from her break and found Marta behind the counter, eating the last slice of Medovik.

“Is it done?” Chloe asked immediately. “The translation?”

Marta smiled softly.

“Yes, the book looks amazing. He did a really good job.”

Chloe leaned over the counter with a sigh.

“Between the Russian fairy tales and the self-translated book… I believe in love again, thanks to them!”

Marta laugh.

“May that kind of love find us all.”

Maybe, just maybe, she could start believing in love again too.

Chapter End Notes

Hello everyone!
I’m not used to writing author’s notes, but I really wanted to thank you all for the love you’ve shown this fanfiction. I do my best to reply to comments, but you all write too fast for me sometimes!!
After more than 15 years of reading fanfic, I finally wrote my first one this year. The incredible love you’ve all shown means the world to me!
Who would have thought that my constant daydreaming and my addiction to people-watching would come in handy for writing fanfic?
I’ve been part of several fandoms over the years, but the Heated Rivalry fandom is truly incredible thanks to everyone's open-mindedness and kindness...
Thank you again, and let’s keep spreading the love 💛

Chapter 37: Gamer Friend

Rob, SunshineRob in-game, loved proximity chat.

Loved it.

Half the reason he even played Phasmophobia was for it. Sure, the ghosts were cool, the investigations were fun, but nothing beat hearing some guy from Sweden whisper “I think we’re going to die” while hiding in a closet.

Connection. Culture. Fear.

It’s beautiful really.

He’d been playing long enough now that he started recognizing a few usernames.

One of them was RussiaGreatestLM.

Rob had no idea what the “LM” stood for, but the “Russia” part tracked. The guy had a thick accent, chaotic energy, and the confidence of someone who had absolutely never been afraid of anything in his life.

They’d played together a handful of times.

Same age, roughly. Good player. A little unhinged.

Rob liked him.

So when he loaded into a lobby one evening and saw RussiaGreatestLM already in the house, he grinned.

“Oh hell yeah,” he muttered, adjusting his headset. “My boy’s here.”

SunshineRob spawned in.

He grabbed a flashlight, EMF reader, and a thermometer. The classic starter combo.

He stepped inside, but his sanity was already questionable. Great.

Rob stepped into the house and immediately spotted him.

Standing in the middle of the hallway.

Not moving.

Rob paused.

“…Oh.”

Classic.

He walked closer, the wooden floor creaking under his steps.

“Hey?” he said. “You there?”

Nothing.

RussiaGreatestLM just stood there. Completely still. Staring into the void like a man contemplating existence.

Rob nodded to himself.

“Yeah, okay. AFK. No fear of ghosts, respect.”

It happened.

The man probably went to grab a drink. Or fight a bear in the middle of the snow landscape of Russia. Who knew.

Rob shrugged and kept playing, moving through the nearby rooms, checking temperatures, muttering to himself.

“Alright, we got… nothing. Love that. No, hate that actually.”

He checked a side room.

“Twenty… twenty-one… okay, we’re not freezing yet…”

He stayed in the same general area, though. Close enough in case his teammate came back.

Because proximity chat?

Only worked if you stayed in range.

And SunshineRob was a team player.

A few minutes passed.

Then…

He heard something.

Rob froze.

It was faint.

Not the radio, he couldn't hear static or a click.

And not the ghost.

Not footsteps, not a door, not the pssshhh of a ghost event starting. He knew ghost sounds. This wasn’t that.

This was…

“…talking?” he whispered.

He turned slowly toward the hallway.

The sound was coming from there.

From where RussiaGreatestLM was standing helplessly.

Rob’s grip tightened on his flashlight.

Okay.

Okay.

This was it.

This was how people died.

But also…

He took a careful step forward.

You had to investigate.

For the mission.

For gaming.

For personal growth.

“Alright, Rob,” he muttered under his breath, inching closer. “You are a grown man. You pay taxes. You have survived Miami. You can absolutely walk toward the creepy unexplained noise in the haunted house.”

Another step.

The sound got clearer.

Not words.

Just…

Breathing.

Heavy.

Rob stopped.

“…oh that’s worse.” he whimpered.

That was worse than ghost noises. Ghosts did not breathe like that. If they did, he would uninstall right now.

He moved closer anyway.

Because he had no survival instincts.

Now he could hear a voice.

Low. Muffled.

Definitely not coming through the radio.

Definitely not aimed at him.

Rob crouched slightly, like that would somehow make him stealthier in a game where ghosts could phase through walls.

“…hello?” he tried again, quieter.

No response.

The voice continued.

And then…

Rob’s brain caught up with his ears.

Oh.

Oh no.

That was…

That was moaning.

He froze.

Completely still.

Every single thought in his brain crashed into a wall.

No way.

There was a second voice now.

Also male.

Clearer.

Close to the mic, but not in the game.

“…stop playing,” the voice was saying, amused and a little breathless. “And pay attention to me.”

Rob blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He slowly turned his head toward RussiaGreatestLM’s perfectly still character.

Where the sound came from.

“…oh,” he said under his breath.

A beat.

“…OH.”

The realization hit him like a truck.

Oh this man was not AFK.

This man was just…

Occupied. Really busy.

Rob immediately looked away.

Which did nothing.

Because sound carried.

His brain started spiraling.

Okay, okay, okay. What do you do in this situation?

Do you leave?

Yes. Obviously. You leave.

Do you pretend you didn’t hear anything?

Also yes. That’s the polite thing to do.

Do you…

Rob hesitated.

Do you… stay?

Just a little?

For… curiosity?

He walks slightly closer.

Just enough to confirm.

From the mic, he could hear a soft laugh.

More breathing.

A very clear, very real “Ilya…” from the other voice.

SunshineRob slapped a hand over his own mouth in real life.

Name acquired.

This was bad. Now he would have to pretend not to know RussiaGreatestLM’s name.

“…you played all day yesterday, play with me now...” the other man murmured, voice low in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with ghost hunting.

Rob stared straight ahead.

At the wall.

At his life choices.

This is not the ghost, he thought. This is WORSE than the ghost.

Another sound.

Rob closed his eyes.

Nope.

Nope, that was enough.

He had boundaries.

He was a respectful man.

He was leaving.

Immediately.

Carefully, very carefully, he backed away, step by step.

No sudden movements.

No noise.

No indication that SunshineRob from Florida had just accidentally witnessed… whatever this was.

He turned the corner.

Walked into another room.

Closed the door behind him.

Exhaled.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Okay. We’re good. We’re fine. We didn’t hear anything. Our friend is just…living his best life.”

Honestly?

Good for him.

Truly.

Rob nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I support that.”

He pulled out his EMF reader, trying to refocus.

“Back to the mission,” he muttered. “Professional. Focused. Not thinking about…anything else.”

A beat.

“…happy for him, really. But kind of jealous now.”

Then…

The lights flickered.

Rob froze.

“…nope.”

His EMF reader beeped.

Once.

Twice.

Level 3.

The door slammed.

“…NOPE.”

A hiss echoed through the room.

“Oh HELL no!”

The ghost appeared.

Right in front of him.

Rob screamed.

Not a dignified scream.

A full, high-pitched, Florida-man-being-murdered scream.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO LISTEN!”

He tried to run, fumbled with the door, and got stuck on the couch like an idiot.

Static filled his ears.

“Ilya, what the fuck is this?” came faintly from the next room.

SunshineRob was still dying when he finally heard it.

A very familiar Russian voice, suddenly back on comms.

“ебать!”

And then darkness.

Game over.

Chapter 38: Podcast Girl

Lucy was jogging through the park near her apartment in Philadelphia, already regretting every life choice that had led her here.

It was way too hot. Like, aggressively hot.

She’d started with music blasting in her ears and a decent amount of motivation, but now she was down to a slow, stubborn shuffle and an empty water bottle. Tragic, she was thirsty as hell.

She walked the rest of the way to a water fountain and refilled her water. After a few seconds of consideration, she leaned forward and just shoved her entire face under the faucet.

Immediate relief.

Cold water soaked her hairline, her cheeks, her dignity, but honestly? Worth it.

She stayed like that for a second longer than socially acceptable, then finally pulled back…and almost screamed.

A man was standing right next to her.

Lucy jerked back, heart jumping into her throat, already halfway ready to fight for her life, when she noticed.

Oh.

He looked just as overheated as she felt.

“Um… sorry,” he said quickly. “I was just waiting for the water.”

Right. Yes. That made sense. People did use fountains for normal purposes.

“Right, of course!” she said, stepping aside, suddenly hyper-aware that she had just waterboarded herself in public.

She took her bottle, drank deeply, and briefly considered calling an Uber for the three-minute jog back home. No shame.

The guy stepped away from the fountain and was about to leave, then hesitated.

“I really like your shirt,” he said.

Her answer is immediate.

“I have a boyfriend.”

She did not have a boyfriend. This was a reflex. A deeply ingrained, fight-or-flight reflex.

And now that she was actually looking at him…yeah, maybe that was a mistake.

Because he was very good-looking. Even half-dead from the heat. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks, damp T-shirt clinging in a way that was frankly distracting.

Maybe she could recover?

Maybe she could pivot to “open relationship” or “it’s complicated”, but she didn’t have time to backtrack.

“Me too,” he blurted.

Lucy blinked.

“Wait… no, that’s not what I meant!” he added immediately, going bright red. “Well… maybe? I just…never mind.”

Oh, this was good! She could smell a good story like a shark smells blood.

“It’s just that,” he rushed on, gesturing awkwardly, “your shirt…it’s from a podcast, right?”

Lucy looked down at her oversized T-shirt that read: You’re in a cult, call your dad.

It’s one of her best shirts, a merch from her favourite true crime podcast.

Her face lit up instantly.

“Yes! Oh my god, you know it? You listen to it? I’m Lucy, by the way!”

Her excitement hit full force. Sue her. Meeting a fellow murderino in the wild? Rare. Beautiful.

Sacred even!

“Hi, I’m Shane,” he said, smiling a little now. “I travel a lot for work, so I listen to a ton of podcasts. That one’s definitely my favorite.”

“Stop, I love that,” she said. “I’m always scared people will think I’m insane for listening to this stuff.”

“Same,” he said. “But honestly, true crime podcasts help with my anxiety.”

Lucy pointed at him like he’d just solved world peace.

“Exactly! And this one is so funny. I’m kind of new to podcasts though… do you have recommendations?”

His face brightened.

“Yes. So many. I barely listen to music but I have, like, a dozen podcasts I rotate through. Wait…”

He pulled out his phone, scrolling. They both leaned in to see his screen, shoulder to shoulder under the scorching sun.

“Okay, this one is less funny,” he said, “but really focused on the investigation of…”

A notification popped up on his screen.

From Lily: What are you wearing?

Lucy didn’t react.

Externally.

Internally?

Oh, this just got more interesting.

Shane went red. Instantly. He swiped the notification away like it had personally attacked him.

“Uh…so this one has two hosts, and they…”

Another buzz.

Because I’m not wearing anything 😈

Shane choked on absolutely nothing and locked his phone, clearly debating whether to fake his own death.

Lucy, meanwhile, was having the time of her life.

Because one thing about her?

She loved true crime.

And gossip.

And this was both of her passions in one situation.

She tilted her head, all innocence. “Sorry, what was the name of that one? I didn’t catch it.”

He hesitated.

But he also couldn’t say no without being rude.

So slowly, tragically, he brought the phone back up.

They entered a weird situation where the notifications didn’t stop but they both pretended they did not see it above the Spotify playlist.

The texts kept coming, rapid-fire.

I’m thinking about you
About last time in the elevator
About the gym
I can’t wait for next time…
Are you thinking about me right now?

Shane was swiping them away at lightning speed.

Unfortunately for him, Lucy was a very fast reader.

At this point, she was pretty sure she could feel the heat radiating off him.

Another buzz.

Are you thinking about me bending you over the…

Shane was faster on this one.

Damn, she couldn’t read the end of it. Tragic. A loss for literature really.

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Whoever this “Lily” guy was?

Bold. She loves that.

Lucy finally took pity on him.

“Well,” she said, stepping back, “thank you so much for the recommendations! It’s always nice to meet someone who’s into the same things.”

He let out a very audible sigh of relief.

“You’re… yeah…of course,” Shane said, voice slightly higher than before. 

Adorable.

Lucy bounced lightly on her feet, ready to head out but she couldn’t resist.

“Oh and,” she added, grinning, “I really hope it works out with your not-yet-boyfriend.”

He froze.

“He seems very hot.”

“Oh my god” he muttered, completely wrecked.

Perfect.

Lucy turned and started jogging away, laughter bubbling up.

She made it about twenty meters before shouting over her shoulder: “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered!”

A few people nearby gave her weird looks.

But behind her, she could hear Shane laughing.

Worth it.

Between meeting a cute guy, bonding over podcasts, and accidentally witnessing what was clearly a very active relationship…

Lucy felt re-energized to run all the way back home.

She picked up her pace.

She had new podcasts to try.