Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Autistic Shane Hollander, Haircuts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Has Sensory Issues, Sensory Overload, Fluff, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Haircut Anxiety, Neurodivergent Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Completed: 2026-04-18 Words: 34,102 Chapters: 2/2

Sensory Overload

Summary

Shane has always just dealt with it —
the tension, the discomfort, the things that don’t quite feel right.

When finally, Ilya starts to notice the pattern.

It just takes him a while to realise it all comes back to something as simple as a haircut.

or

My theory as to why Shane grows his hair out for The Long Game

Notes

So this took me way longer than I expected. I started working on it a month ago, and we're finally here!

Shane's experience and thought patterns are taken from my own thought patterns and rule following. Every day I'm learning new things that I thought were actual rules, but turns out are just societal norms that people pick and choose to follow as they please.

Being a human who is on the spectrum is so confusing and exhausting!

Chapter 1

Ilya stepped inside Shane’s apartment and immediately felt the familiar warmth. It had been three weeks since they’d seen each other — kept apart by preseason training camp and their own home-openers — but Ottawa had finally had their first game against Montreal, and Ilya had been counting down the days.

He kicked off his shoes at the front door and hung his jacket in the closet before moving into the kitchen, where he could hear Shane crashing around. The tension in the air prickled like static. Shane’s hands were busy, and his body was restless, shifting from foot to foot, brushing at the back of his neck, like he was trying to get something off that wouldn’t move.

“Coke?” Shane asked, voice too quick, too smooth. “Or—ginger ale? Coffee? I could—I could make you some food, maybe?”

Ilya smiled softly and let the words pass over him without answering. He perched on the edge of the counter, watching. Every twitch of Shane’s shoulder, every drum of his fingers against the countertop, the repeated glances toward the fridge — all of it told Ilya something was off. He didn’t say anything. He just waited.

After a moment, Shane paused mid-motion, hesitating like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands next. That was Ilya’s cue. He moved around the counter, slid behind Shane, and wrapped his arms around him, pressing their bodies together. Shane stiffened for a beat, then leaned back, surrendering to the hold. Ilya rested his chin on the back of Shane’s neck, letting his lips brush lightly over Shane’s nape and inhaling his familiar, comforting scent.

“Has been weeks,” Ilya murmured, low and rough from anticipation. “I do not want to eat food… I only want to eat you.”

Shane exhaled sharply. His body softened against Ilya’s chest, shoulders dropping just slightly. But Ilya could feel the tension still coiled inside him, subtle but persistent, his mind racing faster than his feet did on the ice.

Ilya tightened his arms a little, letting his warmth and presence sink in. He hummed against the back of Shane’s neck, his mouth moving, teeth and tongue grazing against the sensitive skin, and Shane shivered instinctively. For a moment, they just stayed like that, pressed together, breathing in the quiet after weeks apart.

“Has been too long,” Ilya murmured, voice low. “Summer was… again perfect, yes? Whole months together, then three weeks apart—too long.”

Shane didn’t answer, he leaned back slightly, letting Ilya hold him. Ilya felt the tension in Shane’s shoulders ease just a fraction. He moved his hands slightly, tracing up and down Shane’s sides, his hums still vibrating against Shane’s neck. “I work so hard to fit in with new team,” he added quietly, almost to himself. “But… I always only want this,” he said, pressing closer.

Shane let out a breath, a small sigh, shaking his head. “Yeah, same.”

Then Ilya hummed again, a teasing note threading through it. “Have so much work to do if Ottawa wants to win the Cup this year,” he said, biting lightly at the back of Shane’s neck.

Shane scoffed, half laughing, half annoyed. “As if you can turn the worst team in league around in one season. They can’t even make a shot on an open net.”

Ilya’s hands slid along Shane’s sides, still mouthing at the back of his neck, and Shane tilted his head, giving him more access. “No marks,” Shane muttered, breath catching.

Ilya smirked. “What if I leave little marks where no one can see?” His hands moved lower, before pulling off Shane’s shirt, one hand then moving to slip down the back of Shane’s pants, squeezing his ass, and Shane laughed, shaking his head.

“Not in the kitchen,” he said, his voice teasing now, eyes slipping closed as Ilya’s mouth found his neck again.

Before Shane could protest further, he turned, pressing his lips to Ilya’s, and the playful tension carried them backward, toward the bedroom, still locked in a long, heated kiss.

—

Shane was finally asleep, head resting against Ilya’s chest, his breathing even and soft. Ilya, however, was wide awake, mind turning over everything that might have had Shane so on edge before he arrived. Montreal had won, so it wasn’t a game loss. And they’d officially been together for just over a year now, and they were happy, celebrating their anniversary at the cottage — so it wasn’t their relationship either.

He shifted carefully, trying not to disturb Shane, and began to move to get out of bed. Shane stirred, murmuring something in his sleep. Ilya hushed him gently. “Just getting some water,” he whispered.

Sliding out from under him, Ilya padded quietly to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it at the fridge. He caught sight of Shane’s calendar stuck to the fridge, a small smile tugging at his lips — only Shane would have an actual calendar instead of using his phone.

He glanced at tomorrow’s date. Shane’s only note: HC @ 1pm.

Ilya took a drink of water before heading back to the bedroom.

The game in Ottawa had ended late, and by the time Shane reached Ilya’s house, the city was quieter than usual, the streets mostly empty except for the occasional taxi or late-night bar crowd spilling onto the sidewalks.

He let himself in through the front gate and made his way up the driveway. It was the first time he’d been back here since he helped Ilya move in six weeks ago. He looked up as a stream of light washed over the ground in front of him.

The front door had opened and Ilya stood there barefoot, leaning against the frame with a crooked grin that widened the second he saw Shane. Ilya’s eyes swept over him automatically — taking in his comfy sweatpants and hoodie, still damp hair from the locker room shower, shoulders still tight from the game.

Then his gaze stopped.

“You have had your hair cut.”

Shane ducked his head a little, already stepping past him into the house, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek as he moved. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Last week. After you were here.”

Ilya turned as Shane walked by, crossing the living room toward the kitchen. He watched as Shane’s hand reached up briefly, rubbing at the back of his neck before dropping it again.

Ilya shut the door and followed.

“Looks good,” he called after him.

Shane didn’t even turn around. “It looks the same.”

Ilya laughed softly under his breath as he stepped into the kitchen doorway. Shane was already at the counter, opening the fridge, pulling out a ginger ale.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily, leaning one shoulder against the frame. “But you always look good, so...”

Shane snorted quietly at that, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he opened the can and took a drink.

For a moment the house settled into an easy quiet. Shane moved around the kitchen with familiar efficiency, grabbing a coke from the fridge and tossing it toward Ilya without looking. Ilya caught it one-handed.

Ilya tilted his head. “So,” he said thoughtfully. “That is what HC means.”

Shane paused mid-step. Slowly he turned around, eyebrows lifting in question.

“I saw on your calendar,” Ilya added.

“You read my fridge calendar?”

There was more amusement than accusation in his voice, and Ilya noticed immediately that some of the tension in his shoulders had loosened.

Ilya just smirked.

He shrugged one shoulder and pushed himself off the door-frame, stepping closer.

“Of course,” he said easily. “I like to see what you do when I am not there.”

Shane’s grin widened a little.

“You worried I’m out seeing other guys?”

Ilya shook his head without hesitation, closing the last bit of space between them.

“No.” He leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to Shane’s lips, soft but certain. “I know you only save yourself for me.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh against his mouth, shaking his head as he nudged Ilya lightly with his shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Ilya said, completely unbothered.

He reached up then, fingers brushing briefly through the shorter hair at the back of Shane’s head before Shane could duck away. The strands still felt freshly cut, neat and precise.

“Still, looks good,” Ilya said again.

Shane made a face, swatting his hand away.

“It’s literally the same haircut.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed again, clearly amused. “But now is fresh version.”

Shane rolled his eyes and turned back toward the counter, but Ilya could see the faintest hint of a smile lingering there.

He moved in behind him without thinking, sliding his arms loosely around Shane’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

Shane leaned back into him automatically.

“Good game tonight,” Ilya murmured.

Shane shrugged a little. “Could’ve been better.”

“You won.”

“Yeah, but—”

Shane cut himself off halfway through the complaint, shaking his head like he’d already decided it wasn’t worth getting into.

Ilya didn’t push. Instead he squeezed him once, lightly.

“Still good,” he said.

For a few seconds they just stood there in the quiet kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.

Then Shane shifted slightly in his hold.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Ilya thought about it for exactly half a second.

“No.”

Shane huffed another laugh.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re always hungry.”

Ilya tightened his arms just a little, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Shane’s neck.

“Is true, but I had something better in mind.”

Shane tilted his head slightly, giving him easier access without even realising he’d done it.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Shane turned in his arms then, catching Ilya’s mouth in a kiss that lingered just long enough to make Ilya smile when they pulled apart.

“Bedroom,” Shane said simply.

Ilya didn’t argue.

Five weeks slipped past faster than Ilya expected.

The season had settled into its rhythm — games, flights, practices, more flights. Ottawa was out west for a road trip, and tonight Ilya was sitting alone in a quiet hotel room in California, the curtains drawn against the outside world. His bag lay half-packed on the floor; his phone balanced against the water bottle on the bedside table.

When the screen finally lit up, Shane’s name flashing across it, Ilya felt his shoulders loosen and his heart race.

He answered immediately.

Shane appeared a second later, the familiar outline of his apartment behind him. He was sitting at his kitchen table, laptop open, glasses slipping a little down his nose.

“Hey,” Shane said.

“Hello, moya lyubov,” Ilya replied, his words warm.

For a moment they just looked at each other. It had been nearly two weeks since they’d last seen each other in person, and Ilya let himself take in the details automatically — Shane’s hair slightly mussed, the soft grey T-shirt he liked to sleep in, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

Then Shane shifted in his chair.

Just a small movement, nothing obvious, but it was enough for Ilya’s attention to sharpen.

Shane adjusted the laptop screen, then reached for the edge of the table, fingers tapping lightly against the wood before he pulled them back into his lap. A second later he shifted again, pushing his glasses up his nose even though they hadn’t slipped any further.

Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“Shane? Something is wrong?” he asked gently.

Shane blinked. “Nothing.”

Ilya watched him for another moment.

“Moya lyubov,” he tried again, softer this time. “Something is bothering you.”

Shane huffed a quiet breath, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m fine,” he said, giving a quick shake of his head. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Shane did look tired — but that wasn’t what Ilya was seeing.

He could see the faint line drawn between Shane’s eyebrows, the way his eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses as if the light bothered him. His mouth looked tighter than usual too, the corners pressed down just enough that Ilya noticed.

Small things. Easy to miss if you didn’t know him.

But Ilya knew him.

He let the silence stretch for a second longer before nodding slowly.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane’s shoulders loosened a fraction, relief flickering across his face so briefly that most people would have missed it.

Ilya didn’t.

He leaned back against the headboard of the hotel bed, forcing himself to relax even though the uneasy feeling in his chest hadn’t gone anywhere.

“So,” Shane said after a moment, rubbing the side of his face. “How’s California?”

“Hot,” Ilya replied dryly.

Shane smiled faintly at that.

“Poor baby.”

“Is terrible,” Ilya said solemnly. “Sunshine everywhere. Makes me miss Ottawa.”

Shane snorted, the sound softer than usual, but it eased some of the tension in the room between them.

They talked for a while after that. Ilya listened, nodding along, occasionally adding a comment or teasing him just enough to draw another small smile.

But he kept watching.

Every now and then Shane would shift in his chair again. His fingers drummed once against the table before he stilled them, like he’d caught himself doing it. At one point he reached up to rub briefly at the back of his neck before dropping his hand again.

Each movement was small, easy to dismiss.

But together they formed a pattern Ilya couldn’t ignore.

God, he wished he was there.

If he were in Montreal right now he would simply cross the room and wrap his arms around Shane from behind, press his face into the back of his neck and hold him there until the tension slowly melted away.

It was easy when they were together. Shane always softened eventually under his hands.

But California was thousands of miles away, and the thin rectangle of the screen between them suddenly felt impossibly fragile.

Shane was still talking about something — one of his line-mates missing an open net earlier in the week — but Ilya found himself barely hearing the words.

All he could see was the tightness in Shane’s face.

All he could think about was how far away he was.

The distance pressed in on him suddenly, heavy and suffocating, like trying to breathe underwater.

“I wish I was there,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane paused mid-sentence.

“What?”

Ilya shrugged. “So I could hold you,” he said simply. “You look like you need it.”

For a second Shane didn’t say anything.

Then he smiled, soft but a little tired.

“I’m okay,” he said again.

Ilya held his gaze through the screen.

He didn’t believe it.

But Shane had already turned slightly in his chair, reaching for his drink, the moment slipping past like it had never happened.

So Ilya let it go.

Shane shifted back, pushing his glasses up his nose again before leaning forward a little toward the screen.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “You play tomorrow, right?”

Ilya blinked, the sudden change of subject obvious but not unwelcome.

“Yes,” he said.

“Boston?”

“In Boston. Have to get up very early for flight tomorrow. Was supposed to fly tonight but weather is Boston is shit.”

Shane hummed quietly at that, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “First time back since signing with Ottawa.”

Ilya shrugged one shoulder, trying to look more casual than he felt.

“First time, yes.”

A small pause settled between them.

“How you feeling about it?” Shane asked.

Ilya hesitated for half a second too long before answering.

“Is just another game.”

Shane’s eyebrows lifted immediately.

“Uh huh.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet breath. “Is true.”

“Sure,” Shane said, unconvinced.

Ilya could see the moment Shane noticed it — the same way Ilya had noticed the tension in him earlier. Shane tilted his head slightly, studying him through the screen.

“You’re lying,” he said mildly.

“I am not lying.”

“You totally are.”

Ilya pressed his lips together, trying not to smile.

“Maybe little bit,” he admitted.

Shane snorted softly.

“Yeah, I figured.”

Ilya rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of the knot of tension sitting there.

“It will be strange,” he admitted after a moment. “Being there again. But this time in visitors’ locker room.”

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly.

There was no judgement in his voice, only understanding.

“I wish I was there,” Shane added after a moment.

Ilya glanced back at the screen.

“Why?”

“So I could wait for you after the game,” Shane said with a faint grin. “Be at your hotel when you got back. Ease some of your tension.”

Ilya smiled softly.

“And would you let me take away some of your tension?”

“That’s different,” Shane said immediately.

“Ah,” Ilya said. “So you admit you have tension.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Ilya, I’m fine.”

Ilya shook his head, amused, but still not fully believing Shane.

The quiet stretched again after that, softer this time.

Then Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“You have day off tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Any plans?”

For the briefest moment, Shane froze.

It was subtle — so quick most people would have missed it. But Ilya saw it immediately. The small pause, the way Shane’s eyes flicked away from the screen before he answered.

“Nothing big,” Shane said, shrugging one shoulder. “Just… errands, probably.”

Something tightened in Ilya’s chest.

The line between Shane’s eyebrows had crept back again.

Ilya didn’t ask.

Instead he gave a small nod.

“Sounds exciting.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, living the dream.”

For a second neither of them spoke.

Ilya studied his face through the screen again — the tightness still there around his mouth, the faint crease between his brows — and the helpless feeling returned all at once.

He couldn’t fix it from here.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Shane looked up.

“You should get some sleep.”

Shane frowned slightly. “You’re the one with the early flight and game tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Which means I should also sleep.”

Shane smiled faintly at that.

“You should.”

Ilya hesitated for a second before adding, “I will call you tomorrow. After game.”

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

They lingered for another moment, neither quite ready to end the call.

Then Shane gave a small wave toward the screen.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he said.

Ilya smiled softly.

“Thank you, moya lyubov.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Shane.”

The screen went dark a second later.

Ilya sat there for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the blank screen.

Something was bothering Shane.

He just didn’t know what yet.

The game in Boston was worse than Ilya had expected.

He’d told Shane it would be strange going back, but strange didn’t begin to cover it. The arena had looked exactly the same, and for a moment it had almost felt like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

He dressed in the visitors’ room now.

And they’d lost. Badly.

By the time he got back to the hotel, his whole body felt heavy and wrong, the kind of exhaustion that came from more than just playing sixty minutes of hockey.

He tossed his bag near the door and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.

All he wanted was Shane.

He grabbed his phone and opened FaceTime before he could think about it too much.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Then Shane’s face filled the screen.

Ilya’s chest tightened immediately.

Shane looked… strained. The skin around his eyes was tight again, his mouth pressed thin like he was holding something back. And he wasn’t quite looking at the screen — his gaze kept flicking just past it.

“Hi,” Shane said.

“Hi,” Ilya replied quietly.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Ilya studied him automatically, the way he always did, searching for the small tells he’d learned over the years. Shane shifted slightly on the couch, shoulders tense, and Ilya could hear his fingers tapping against his knee.

Then something else caught Ilya’s attention.

Shane’s hair.

It was shorter again.

“You have had your hair cut again,” Ilya said.

Shane blinked once, then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“Was that the errand you were running today?”

Shane rubbed the back of his neck automatically, nodding again.

“Yeah.”

Ilya watched the movement carefully.

Shane’s fingers stayed there for a second longer than necessary, rubbing at the skin just below his hairline. Then he pulled his hand away and flicked his fingers slightly, like he was trying to shake something off them.

Ilya frowned faintly.

“Is there still hair on your neck?”

Shane glanced down at his hand, then shrugged a little.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I already showered twice since I got home,” he added, sounding faintly frustrated. “But it still feels like there’s hair there.”

Ilya’s expression softened immediately, and he smiled gently at the screen.

“Turn around.”

Shane frowned.

“What?”

“Turn around,” Ilya repeated patiently. “I will check for you.”

For a second Shane just looked at him.

Then he ducked his head, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his mouth.

“Okay.”

He propped his phone against something on the coffee table and moved to sit on the floor, turning his back to the camera.

Ilya leaned closer to the screen, squinting slightly. The image wobbled as Shane adjusted the angle, but Ilya could see the back of his neck well enough.

It looked clean.

No stray clippings that he could see.

“You are okay,” Ilya said after a moment. “I do not see anything.”

Shane stayed turned around for another second, rubbing the spot once more before dropping his hand.

Then he turned back toward the screen.

His shoulders had loosened a little.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Ilya smiled.

“Of course.”

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The quiet sat comfortably between them at first, the faint hum of Ilya’s hotel air conditioner filling the space. Shane had settled back onto the couch again, his shoulders a little looser now, head tipped back against the cushions.

Then Shane cleared his throat.

“I saw the game tonight.”

Ilya groaned immediately, thumping his head back against the headboard.

“Please do not remind me,” he muttered.

Shane winced a little. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Ilya let out a breath through his nose and shook his head, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at the screen.

“No,” he said quietly. “It was bad.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension from the game still sitting there like a knot he couldn’t quite work out.

“I felt like an idiot out there,” he admitted. “Every time I touched the puck it was like whole arena was watching and judging. I could feel it in the crowd.” He huffed softly. “Everyone wondering why I left.”

Shane didn’t respond right away.

Ilya saw the small hesitation — the way Shane’s mouth pressed together for a second before he spoke.

“Do you regret it?”

Ilya blinked.

“What?”

Shane swallowed, still not quite looking at the screen.

“Do you regret moving?” he asked again, quieter this time. “Like… do you regret moving for me? For us?”

For a second Ilya just stared at him.

Then he sighed softly, the tension draining out of his shoulders as his expression gentled.

Shane still wasn’t looking at him.

Ilya leaned forward a little, closer to the screen.

“Dorogoy,” he said softly.

Shane’s eyes flicked up for half a second before dropping again.

“I would not change a thing,” Ilya continued.

He spoke slowly, carefully, making sure Shane heard every word.

“No one forced me to go to Ottawa,” he said. “I wanted to go. I wanted to be closer to you.”

Shane shifted slightly, listening, but still unable to make his eyes look at the screen.

“I love Ottawa,” Ilya added, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I love that your parents are there. I like seeing them. Your mother always feeds me too much.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh at that.

“And my new team…” Ilya shrugged lightly. “It takes time. But I am starting to enjoy them. They are good guys.”

He paused for a moment before finishing.

“And I am closer to you. I would not change any of it.”

Shane nodded slowly, his fingers tracing absent circles on the couch.

“I just wish,” Ilya added with a faint grimace, “that it did not come with entire league questioning my life choices.”

Shane nodded again.

He didn’t fully understand the weight of that — Ilya could see it in the slight confusion behind his eyes — but the gratitude was there, clear and warm.

“I still appreciate it,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya smiled softly at him.

“I know,” he said.

For a moment they just looked at each other through the screen again.

The earlier tension hadn’t disappeared completely, but it had softened around the edges. Shane tried to stifle a yawn, one hand coming up to push his glasses back into place.

Ilya tilted his head.

“How long until we see each other again?” he asked.

Shane blinked once, clearly running through the schedule in his head.

“Two weeks,” he said after a moment. “When we play Ottawa.”

Ilya nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

“And then we’re both off the next day,” Shane added. “So… I’m gonna stay at your place after the game.”

The idea settled warmly in Ilya’s chest.

“And we have whole night and day together,” he said.

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

For a second neither of them spoke again, but this time the quiet felt heavier.

“I hate this part,” Shane admitted quietly.

“The distance?” Ilya asked.

Shane shrugged one shoulder.

“Yeah.”

He looked down, tracing his thumb along the edge of his phone.

“I feel like it’s getting harder.”

Ilya understood immediately.

After summer everything felt harder.

Months together at the cottage or Shane’s place. Waking up in the same bed every morning. Cooking together. Swimming. Long quiet afternoons where neither of them had anywhere else to be.

And now—

Flights.

Hotels.

FaceTime calls through a screen.

“It is harder now,” Ilya agreed softly. “After we had another whole summer together.”

Shane gave a small nod.

“Yeah.”

Ilya leaned back slightly against the headboard, studying his face.

“Only two weeks,” he said.

Shane glanced up again.

“I know.”

“We will survive,” Ilya added dryly.

Shane huffed a quiet laugh.

“Barely.”

“Barely,” Ilya confirmed.

The moment stretched again, the familiar reluctance to end the call creeping in.

But the clock beside Ilya’s bed read almost midnight, and he still had a flight in the morning.

“You should sleep,” Shane said finally.

Ilya sighed.

“Yes.”

Shane leaned forward, the screen shifting closer to his face.

“Text me when you get home tomorrow?”

“I will.” A small pause. “Good night, Shane.”

“Night, Ilya.”

“I love you.”

Shane’s mouth softened into a small smile.

“I love you too.”

The screen went dark a second later.

Ilya stared at his reflection in it for a moment before setting the phone down beside him.

Two weeks.

He could handle two weeks.

Even if it already felt too long.

Shane didn’t need to bother knocking.

Ilya had been watching the front gate through the entryway window for the last ten minutes anyway, pacing a slow path across the floor every time a set of headlights passed on the street. When he finally saw Shane step out of his cab and walk up the pathway, something in Ilya’s chest loosened all at once.

He opened the door before Shane even reached it.

Shane barely made it across the threshold before he was pulled into Ilya’s arms.

Ilya caught him easily, arms wrapping tight around his back as Shane buried his face against the side of his neck. The force of it pushed Ilya back through the doorway. He tightened his hold, one hand sliding up into the back of Shane’s hair.

Five weeks.

It had been five weeks since they’d last held each other like this.

Shane’s arms locked around his ribs, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if he needed the contact to be real. Ilya pressed his nose into the warm skin beneath Shane’s ear, breathing him in — soap, cold night air, something that was just Shane.

Shane pressed his nose into Ilya’s neck in return, holding him just as tightly.

Neither of them spoke.

Ilya’s hands slid up Shane’s back, squeezing once, twice, like he couldn’t quite convince himself this was real.

“Finally,” he murmured against Shane’s neck.

Shane huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“Missed you,” Shane murmured into his neck.

Ilya hummed softly in agreement, his lips brushing against Shane’s skin.

They stayed there a little longer, breathing each other in like they needed to refill something that had been running empty for weeks.

Then Shane’s stomach growled loudly between them.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him before laughing.

“Ah,” he said, eyes bright. “Your stomach can smell dinner.”

Shane groaned quietly, pressing closer into Ilya. “Shut up.”

But Ilya only grinned, pulling back just enough to kiss him.

It started soft — familiar, warm — before deepening as Shane leaned into it. Ilya’s hand slid to the back of his neck, tilting his head slightly as his tongue brushed into Shane’s mouth for just a second before he pulled away again.

“Come,” Ilya said, still smiling. “You need to eat.”

Shane blinked at him.

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily. “But you still have to eat.”

It was late — well past when they usually ate — but Ilya had cooked anyway, knowing that Shane wouldn’t have eaten at the arena before leaving.

Grilled chicken sat resting under foil on the stove, and a bowl of fresh salad waited on the counter.

Shane paused in the kitchen doorway, looking at the spread.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“I know.”

Ilya handed him a plate.

“It follows your nutrition plan,” he added, almost smugly. “But I put better spices on the chicken.”

Shane snorted quietly as he pressed another kiss to Ilya’s cheek before accepting the plate that was offered to him.

They ate side by side at the table, their chairs pulled so close together their knees kept bumping under the wood. Every now and then one of them would lean into the other without thinking — a shoulder brushing, Shane’s arm resting against Ilya’s.

When they finished eating, Shane stood and gathered the dishes before Ilya could stop him.

“You cooked,” he said. “I’ll clean.”

Ilya leaned against the counter, watching him with a small smile as Shane moved around the kitchen, rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher with practiced efficiency.

When the last dish clicked into place, Shane closed the dishwasher and turned back around.

Ilya was already standing in front of him.

He reached down and hooked two fingers into the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants.

“Come here,” he murmured.

There was a dark glint in his eyes that made warmth curl low in Shane’s stomach.

Ilya stepped backward toward the hallway, gently tugging Shane along with him.

Shane let himself be pulled.

By the time they reached the bedroom doorway, Shane was grinning, noticing that Ilya was just as hard as he was.

—

Ilya woke before Shane.

For a moment he stayed where he was, half tangled in the sheets, feeling the slow rise and fall of Shane’s breathing against his chest. One of Shane’s arms was thrown loosely across his face, his hair a complete disaster against the pillow.

Ilya smiled to himself before carefully pulling his arm out from under Shane’s neck and quietly slipping out of bed.

By the time Shane shuffled into the kitchen twenty minutes later, Ilya had coffee brewing and a pan warming on the stove.

Shane looked exactly like someone who had been woken up too early — sweatpants low on his hips, hair sticking up in several directions, eyes still half closed as he dragged a hand over his face.

Ilya turned from the stove, noticing immediately, the faint red mark blooming on Shane’s chest.

He laughed softly.

Shane followed his gaze downward and scoffed.

“This better fade before I have to be at training tomorrow afternoon,” he muttered.

Ilya’s grin only widened.

“I will kiss it better,” he offered.

Shane rolled his eyes but stepped forward anyway, sliding his arms around Ilya from behind. He pressed in close, warm and solid, his chin settling on Ilya’s shoulder as he leaned into him.

Ilya adjusted his stance automatically so Shane could fit more comfortably against his back, one hand still moving the spatula across the pan.

Shane inhaled slowly.

“Are you cooking this for me because you left a hickey on my chest?” he asked.

Ilya smiled, shaking his head slightly.

“No.”

The eggs hissed quietly in the pan.

“But is kind of like apology anyway.”

Behind him Shane made a small questioning noise, the sound vibrating faintly through Ilya’s shoulder as he rested his head there.

Ilya didn’t answer right away. He flipped the egg whites carefully instead, watching the edges curl slightly as they cooked.

The silence stretched just long enough.

“Ilya,” Shane said.

There was the faintest hint of warning in his voice now.

Ilya sighed softly and slid the pan a little off the heat.

“I am sorry, dorogoy,” he said. “I thought we would have whole day together.”

Shane shifted slightly behind him.

“But my phone went off this morning,” Ilya continued, “reminding me of appointment I had forgotten.”

Behind him Shane made that questioning sound again.

“Appointment?” he asked.

Ilya nodded, even though Shane couldn’t see it.

“Haircut. Booked weeks ago,” he explained. “I completely forgot about it until reminder this morning. Otherwise I would have moved it to different day.”

The kitchen went very still.

For a second Ilya thought Shane had simply shifted his weight.

Then he realised Shane had gone completely motionless.

The arms around his waist had tightened just slightly, like something in Shane had locked in place.

Ilya frowned faintly.

“Shane?. . . Shane?” He said it again, softer the second time, almost a whisper, one hand lifting from the counter to squeeze lightly at Shane’s arm where it had gone stiff across his chest.

There was a beat—

Then Shane seemed to snap back into himself.

“Yeah?”

Ilya turned the stove off and twisted in his hold, gently pulling free just enough to face him properly.

“Where did you go?” he asked, studying his face.

Shane blinked at him. “What?”

Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“Just then,” he said. “You went still. This only happens when you get lost inside your pretty little head.”

He reached up as he spoke, brushing a loose piece of hair back from Shane’s forehead. His thumb lingered, tracing lightly over the freckles scattered across his cheek.

Shane shook his head, like he could shake the moment off.

Ilya didn’t let him.

He dipped his head slightly to catch Shane’s eyes.

Shane let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh.

“How do you do that?” he murmured.

“Do what?” Ilya asked.

Shane hesitated for half a second before saying it.

“Forget a haircut?”

Ilya’s brow furrowed.

“Is easy,” he said simply. “Appointment was made weeks ago and I do not have fridge calendar.”

Shane dropped his head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ilya narrowed his eyes slightly.

That wasn’t just amusement.

He reached out again, this time sliding his hand under Shane’s chin and lifting his head back up.

“Shane,” he said quietly. “What is wrong? Something else is bothering you.”

Shane shook his head immediately.

“It’s nothing.”

Ilya didn’t move.

He just waited, watching him with that steady, patient look that made it very clear he was not going anywhere until he got a real answer. His thumb still gently rubbing over Shane’s jaw.

Shane sighed again, softer this time, like he didn’t quite know how to explain it.

“I just—” He hesitated, frowning slightly. “I don’t get how you forgot.”

Ilya’s expression shifted, confusion giving way to something more curious.

He tilted his head.

“Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “you have never forgotten haircut appointment?”

Shane shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

Ilya blinked at him once.

Then he let out a soft, almost disbelieving breath, nodding slightly.

“Wow,” he said.

Shane’s mouth twitched faintly, like he wasn’t sure how to react to that.

“I cannot believe I forgot either,” Ilya continued, almost to himself. “Because this is one of my favourite days.”

Shane’s brows pulled together immediately.

“Your favourite… what?”

Ilya’s eyes lit up a little, the earlier confusion already fading as he leaned back slightly against the counter.

“The best day,” he said, like it should be obvious. “I go to the salon, I see Marco—” He grinned at Shane. “I have found him here in Ottawa. He is even better than Julia in Boston.”

Shane just stared at him.

Ilya didn’t seem to notice.

“He is very good,” he went on. “Especially with curly hair. He understands how to cut it properly, not like some others who just—” he made a vague chopping motion with his hand “—guess.”

Shane’s expression hadn’t changed.

“And when he washes my hair—” Ilya added, his voice softening slightly, “—his hands are very strong. It is…” He paused, searching for the word, then shrugged lightly. “Nice.”

Shane blinked.

“I like sitting there,” he continued. “You do not have to think about anything. You just sit, and someone takes care of you for a while.”

He looked back up at Shane, still relaxed, still warm from the thought of it.

“And then you look good after,” he finished simply.

There was a beat.

Shane stared at him like he’d just said something completely insane.

“You like having your hair cut?” he asked.

Ilya stopped.

Really looked at him this time.

“You don’t?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Shane shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Not really,” he said. “It’s just something I have to do.”

Ilya watched him for a second longer, something quieter settling into his expression now — not confusion exactly, but… curiosity. A small piece of something not quite fitting into place.

Then he stepped forward, closing the space between them again.

He pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s cheek.

“Is it okay if I go today?” he asked gently. “I can try to make it quick.”

Shane swallowed, just barely.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.” He forced a small smile while nodding. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Ilya smiled back at him, easy and warm.

“Okay,” he said.

—

The door clicked shut quietly behind Ilya as he toed off his shoes.

There was movement in the kitchen, as he stepped around the corner and paused.

Shane was pacing.

Back and forth across the tiles, one hand dragging through his hair, the other flexing at his side as if he was trying to shake out the tension. He hadn’t even noticed Ilya yet.

Ilya leaned lightly against the wall, watching him for a second, something soft and fond settling in his chest.

“Is okay,” he said finally, voice warm with amusement. “I am home, and I still have hair.”

Shane jumped.

Actually jumped — shoulders jerking as he spun around.

Ilya couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the flush already creeping up Shane’s neck.

“Jesus,” Shane muttered, exhaling sharply.

Ilya just laughed softly and stepped forward, opening his arms slightly as if presenting himself.

“Well?” he asked.

Shane hesitated for half a second before moving closer.

His hand came up almost automatically, fingers brushing against the shorter curls at the back of Ilya’s neck. He touched carefully at first, like he was checking something, then a little more firmly, his fingers slipping into the soft hair at Ilya’s nape.

“Looks good,” Shane said.

Ilya scoffed, eyebrows lifting as his grin widened.

“Only good?”

Shane’s mouth twitched.

His gaze dropped, but his hand didn’t stop moving, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of Ilya’s hairline.

“Such an asshole,” he muttered.

Then, quieter—

“You look really fucking good.”

Ilya’s grin softened into something warmer.

“Better,” he said.

He leaned in, closing the space between them, and kissed him.

It started easy, familiar — but Shane leaned into it immediately, and Ilya followed, one hand sliding to the back of his neck as his tongue slipped into Shane’s mouth. Shane made a small sound against him, his grip tightening slightly in Ilya’s hair.

For a moment, everything else dropped away.

Then they pulled back, just enough to breathe.

Shane stayed close, his hand still resting at the back of Ilya’s neck.

“Did you… enjoy yourself?” he asked quietly.

Ilya’s face lit up immediately.

“Yes,” he said, nodding once, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth. “It was so good. Marco took very good care of me today.”

Shane scoffed under his breath.

Ilya’s smile sharpened slightly at the sound.

“But,” he added, voice dipping just a little lower, “I think you could take better care of me now.”

Shane scoffed, muttering asshole under his breath again as he dropped to his knees, before beginning to mouth at Ilya’s quickly growing bulge.

“Such good care,” Ilya mumbled, his hand gripping in Shane’s hair as he tugged at Ilya’s waistband.

The All-Star weekend was different this year.

Instead of selecting the best of the best, the league had decided to bring in all thirty-two captains, something about showcasing leadership across every team, and then filled out the last couple of spots on the roster, and the goalies, through fan voting.

It meant that the atmosphere was different. The locker rooms weren’t full of excited rookies getting to play alongside their idols, but instead full of seasoned vets. Men who had known each other for years. Some who had hated each other for years too.

By the time the game rolled around, everyone had already been in Montreal for a couple of days.

Which meant people had started noticing things.

Ilya had just come off the ice from morning skate and was heading down the hallway when the new captain from Boston fell into step beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly.

“So,” Victor St-Simon said, dragging the word out. “You still pretending you’re staying at the hotel?”

Ilya snorted.

“I have room there,” he said.

“Yeah?” Victor shot back, grinning. “You been in it yet?”

Ilya rolled his eyes but didn’t answer that.

St-Simon laughed, clearly taking that as confirmation.

“Thought so. Montreal Girl’s still treating you well, huh?”

“Very funny,” Ilya said, but there wasn’t much bite to it.

He let the conversation drop there, not bothering to correct anything. It wasn’t like anyone actually needed him to spell it out.

“Say hi to Jane for me!” St-Simon called out as Ilya walked away.

—

The game itself passed quickly.

The Eastern Division took the win, Shane and Ilya scoring a goal each.

By the time Sunday morning came around, the excitement of the weekend had already worn off. The only thing left on everyone’s schedule was the captains photo shoot, which no one was looking forward to.

It was something the league had put together while they had all of them in one place. Group shots, individual photos, content they could use later to advertise.

Neither Ilya nor Shane were looking forward to it when they woke up together that morning to have breakfast.

Ilya left Shane’s place first.

Shane was still drinking his coffee when Ilya pulled his jacket on, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hands, hair still a mess.

“I’ll see you there,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be like ten minutes behind you.”

Ilya grabbed his bag. He was heading straight to the airport after the shoot, flying out to Columbus for Ottawa’s game tomorrow night.

“Drive safe,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Shane. Their last one for at least two more weeks.

“I will,” Shane replied. “I’ll see you there.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, pressing one last kiss to Shane’s lips. “Back to where I cannot touch you.”

—

By the time Ilya got to the arena, things were already moving so quickly.

He didn’t have to look for where to go. Someone caught him almost immediately and pointed him down the hallway, and a few minutes later he was being directed into a large room that had been set up for hair and makeup.

All thirty-two captains were being pushed through at once.

Chairs lined up in rows, mirrors in front of each one, tables crowded with products and tools. People moved quickly between them, calling out names, guiding players into seats, keeping everything on schedule.

Ilya sat where he was told, settling back and letting himself relax into it. He’d done enough of these that he didn’t need to think about it. You showed up, you sat still, you let people do what they needed to do.

A few minutes later, Shane walked in.

Ilya noticed him tense straight away.

Someone guided him into the chair beside his, and when Shane looked up, their eyes met in the mirror.

Shane tried to look fine.

Ilya lifted his brows slightly.

Shane gave a small nod back.

Ilya let it go, knowing there was not much he could do without giving too much of their situation away, and turned his attention back to the mirror as someone stepped in behind him.

“Hi, I’m Em and I’m just going to quickly apply some coverage and fix your hair before we send you off to get changed,” she said.

“Okay.”

He didn’t pay much attention after that. A brush moved across his skin, something cool pressed briefly against his forehead, quick, efficient movements.

His gaze drifted back to the mirror anyway.

To Shane.

Another stylist had stepped up behind him.

“Hi, I’m Cass” she said.

Her hand went straight into the back of Shane’s hair, fingers pushing lightly as she felt through it, lifting slightly at the nape without saying anything first.

Ilya watched as Shane stiffened.

“Can I get a kit over here?” she called.

Someone pushed a trolley over, wheels rattling softly against the floor.

Ilya’s eyes dropped to it for a second.

Scissors. Clippers. Combs. A cape folded over the side.

Shane noticed it a beat later.

“What are you—?”

“Just going to clean this up a bit,” the stylist said, already reaching for the cape.

She shook it out and settled it over his shoulders, fastening it at the back of his neck in one smooth motion.

“I just had one,” Shane said, turning his head slightly.

“It’s okay,” she replied. “We’ll just tidy it up a bit more.”

Her hands were already back in his hair.

Shane shifted under them, like he didn’t quite know how to sit.

“But I just had it cut two weeks ago,” he said again.

“That’s fine,” she said, reaching for the tools. “This won’t take long.”

Ilya’s attention stayed fully on the mirror now.

On Shane.

He wasn’t pushing back anymore.

He’d gone quiet, his head held completely still and his face stiff. His shoulders were tighter than they had been a minute ago, his posture more controlled, like he was holding himself still on purpose.

The stylist picked up the clippers and snapped a guard into place.

The sound was small, but it carried.

In the mirror, Shane’s eyes fixed on the movement.

Shane watched as she switched them on, the low buzz starting up behind him, and stayed very still in the chair.

Ilya didn’t look away.

The stylist’s hand came up to the top of Shane’s head. She pressed down gently, guiding him forward until his chin tipped toward his chest.

Shane went with it.

He didn’t resist, but Ilya could see the way his eyes tightened just before his gaze dropped out of view in the mirror.

From where he was sitting, Ilya could see it — the exact moment the clippers touched the back of his neck. The slight flinch that never fully made it into a movement, caught and held in place under the stylist’s hand.

The first pass was quick.

Up the back of his head, clean and practiced. Dark strands lifted and fell away, barely any length, just enough to sharpen the line.

It wasn’t drastic.

Most people wouldn’t even notice the difference.

But Ilya did.

It was shorter than Shane usually wore it.

His attention stayed fixed on Shane, his eyes constantly looking to his right, focusing on every small detail — the way Shane’s shoulders had locked into place, the way his jaw tensed every time the clippers made another pass.

Around them, the room carried on.

Voices, movement, the scrape of chairs shifting across the floor.

Two players passed behind them — the captains from Toronto and Calgary — slowing just enough to take in the scene.

“Getting shorn like a sheep over there, Hollander?”

“They’ll have to do more than shave you to get you looking pretty, Hollander,” the other added, laughing.

It was a typical chirp between players, but Ilya felt his jaw tighten anyway.

He said nothing.

He couldn’t.

His eyes flicked back to Shane.

There it was.

Just for a second — the smallest break in that controlled stillness.

A tear had gathered at the corner of Shane’s eye.

But Shane didn’t move to wipe it away.

He didn’t react at all.

Not wanting to draw attention to his emotions, he just stayed exactly where he was, head held down, body still, like if he moved even a fraction everything might fall apart.

Something cold twisted low in Ilya’s chest.

This wasn’t just discomfort.

This wasn’t just not liking it.

Ilya could see it now, clear and undeniable in the reflection in front of him.

This was—

He forced the thought to stop.

Because it didn’t matter what it was.

He couldn’t do anything about it.

Not here.

Not like this.

His hands stayed still in his lap, fingers pressing lightly into his own palms to keep himself grounded.

He couldn’t reach for him.

Couldn’t tell them to stop.

Couldn’t even say his name.

So he did the only thing he could.

“Dorogoy,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough.

The word barely carried past his own reflection.

But it was enough.

In the mirror, Shane’s eyes closed again.

He waited for the clippers to move away from his head before he gave it the smallest shake, like he was trying to reset himself, to push something down and lock it away again.

To let Ilya know that he had heard him

The clippers pulled away for a moment and the stylist’s hand shifted, fingers sliding from the back of Shane’s head, guiding him upright again.

“Okay, lift for me.”

Shane’s head came back up.

Ilya could see him properly in the mirror again.

And something in his chest tightened.

Shane’s face had gone blank.

Not neutral or relaxed, but empty in a way that didn’t belong to him. Like he had stepped back from himself, like he wasn’t really there anymore. His eyes were open, fixed on his own reflection, but there was nothing moving behind them.

Ilya watched as Shane blinked once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to clear his vision. The tear at the corner of his eye disappeared with it, wiped away before it could fall.

The clippers came back on.

This time at the side of his head.

Shane’s jaw tightened just slightly as the stylist tipped his head again, angling it to get a better line. More hair fell away, shorter than usual, the shape changing slightly under quick, efficient hands.

Ilya could see the moment Shane noticed.

It was small.

Just a flicker — a tightening around his eyes, the faintest shift in his mouth — but it was there.

Shorter than he usually had it.

Shorter than he liked it.

Ilya leaned forward just a fraction, trying to catch his gaze in the mirror.

“Shane—”

It slipped out before he could stop it. A quiet whisper under his breath. Ilya froze for a second, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

To see if Shane had noticed.

He tilted his head in the mirror, lifting his chin slightly, willing Shane to look at him.

Shane didn’t.

His eyes stayed locked on his own reflection, unmoving, like if he focused hard enough on what was happening he could get through it faster.

The stylist moved to the other side without pause, clippers buzzing steadily as she worked.

Behind Ilya, Em stepped back.

“All done,” she said lightly. “You can head to wardrobe.”

Ilya didn’t move. He hadn’t even noticed when she had styled his own hair.

His attention stayed fixed on the mirror, on Shane sitting beside him, shoulders still too tight, his jaw clenching which would give him away if you knew what to look for.

“I said, you’re all done there handsome,” Em said again, patting Ilya’s shoulder.

He blinked, dragged back into the room.

Em was already turning away, waving the next player over, her attention gone just as quickly as it had come.

There wasn’t space to linger, even though he wanted nothing more than to stay.

Ilya hesitated for half a second longer before pushing himself up from the chair.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, but his eyes went straight back to the mirror.

To Shane.

But Shane still didn’t look at him.

He just sat there, staring at himself as the clippers moved along the side of his head, like none of the rest of the room existed.

Ilya’s jaw tightened again.

Then he turned and walked toward wardrobe, leaving him there.

The visitor locker room was loud and full of movement.

Gear bags lined the walls, stalls set up in rows, nameplates taped up in a hurry, each player moving, trying to find their spot.

Ilya found his without looking for long. The red and black of Ottawa sticking out between yellow and blue on either side.

His gear had already been set out.

He dropped his travel bag beside the seat and started stripping down, movements automatic. Shirt, pants, everything peeled away until he was standing in just his underwear, the cool air hitting his skin.

Usually there was a rhythm to this. A routine he didn’t have to think about. Base layers, pads, tape, laces — muscle memory taking over, his body moving through it without effort.

But today his hands kept pausing.

His head wasn’t in it.

All he could see, over and over again, was Shane in that chair.

Still. Silent. Not there.

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to focus, reaching for his compression pants and pulling them on, then his shorts, then down to his shin guards.

He strapped them in place a little tighter than necessary.

Someone bumped into him from the side.

St-Simon.

“Jesus,” he said, pressing his fingers briefly into Ilya’s shoulder as he moved past.

Right over a bruise.

Ilya flinched before he could stop himself.

St-Simon noticed, grin already forming.

“That from the game,” he asked, “or your Montreal girl?”

Ilya shrugged, not even looking at him.

“Game.”

“Mm,” St-Simon hummed. “Didn’t realise game bruises could look so much like a hickey.”

Ilya barely heard him.

His attention kept pulling toward the door.

Waiting.

A few more players filtered in and out, voices overlapping, gear shifting, the familiar noise of a locker room around him.

Then—

Shane.

Ilya’s head snapped up before he could stop it.

Shane stepped into the room, moving straight to his stall on the other side. His gear had already been set out too.

He didn’t look around.

Didn’t hesitate.

Just moved.

Ilya watched him pull his shirt off, then his pants, stripping down to his underwear without a second thought, movements quick, efficient. Then the compression layers went on, one after the other, like he was following a script he’d run a thousand times before.

Head still down.

Not looking at anyone.

Not looking at him.

Ilya tried anyway.

Just for a second, he held his stare, waiting for Shane to glance up, to catch his eye across the room.

Nothing.

Shane sat down on the bench, reaching for his shin guards.

Left first.

Always left first.

Ilya’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t his Shane sitting opposite him. It was as if it was a shell. It was Shane’s body, Shane’s mannerisms, but it wasn’t Shane.

His hair was now shorter than Ilya had ever seen him have it, and there was no life behind his eyes. It was as if he had been replaced by a robot. Something with Shane’s likeness, but none of Shane’s personality.

Someone stepped into the room then, clipboard in hand.

“Rozanov? You’re up.”

Ilya blinked, dragged back into the moment.

“Okay.”

He grabbed his jersey, pulling it on over his head, the fabric settling over his shoulders.

One more look.

Just one.

Shane was still focused on his gear, hands moving steadily, head down, like nothing else existed in the room.

Ilya hesitated for half a second.

Then he turned and headed for the door.

Away from him again.

The photo shoot dragged. They always did when trying to organise 32 men into position.

Ilya stood where he was told, moved when he was directed, turned when someone called his name. It was all automatic, the same as getting dressed, the same as stepping onto the ice. Smile here. Look there. Stand closer. Shift left.

He did it all without thinking.

Because his attention was somewhere else entirely.

Shane wasn’t far.

Never more than a few feet away as they moved through different setups, different groupings. Close enough that Ilya could keep him in his peripheral vision without needing to look directly at him.

And he watched.

Shane followed every instruction.

Turn. Stop. Look here.

He did it all exactly as he was told, like he was running on a script, like if he just kept moving through it one step at a time, it would be over sooner.

But nothing about him had loosened.

His shoulders were still too tight, his movements just slightly too controlled. And every time the flash went off, Ilya caught it — the smallest twitch, quick and contained, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Most people wouldn’t notice.

Ilya did.

He always did.

Usually, this kind of thing would have been easy. A room full of captains, half of them people he’d played with or against for years. There would have been jokes, comments thrown across the room, someone chirping someone else about last night’s game.

Ilya would usually have been a part of it.

Today, he said nothing.

He didn’t engage with anyone.

He didn’t even try.

He stayed quiet, eyes tracking Shane without making it obvious, always aware of where he was in the room.

At one point they were moved into smaller groups, rotating through quicker shots. Ilya was pulled aside briefly, told to wait while they reset.

He stepped out into the hallway, the noise dropping away slightly as the door shut behind him.

His phone was already in his hand.

The flight confirmation sat open on his screen — showing the booking for that afternoon. Straight from the shoot to Columbus — and he changed it without hesitating to the following morning

He’d still make it in time for the game. It would be tight, but manageable.

Management would be pissed, but Ilya didn’t care. Anything for Shane was worth it.

He opened his messages next, typing quickly.

Personal emergency came up. Had to change flight. I will now be landing at 3pm tomorrow.

He stared at the screen for a second before hitting send.

Then he pushed himself back off the wall and headed inside again.

The final setup took the longest.

All thirty-two captains arranged for the group shot.

Voices overlapped as people were moved into position, the photographer calling out adjustments, assistants stepping in and out to fix small details.

Ilya was directed to the back row.

“Right there—no, a little to your left. Closer to Tampa Bay. Yeah. Stay.”

He did.

From where he stood, he could see over most of them.

And he found Shane immediately.

Front row.

Three places in from the end.

Close, but not close enough.

Shane sat where he’d been placed, hands resting on his knees, posture straight. His shoulders were still tight, his jaw still set, the same blank look settled over his face.

He hadn’t looked around once.

Not at the photographer.

Not at anyone else.

Not at Ilya.

“Eyes here, guys!”

The flash went off.

Ilya moved so he was looking straight ahead, his gaze dropping between every photo.

Another flash.

Shane flinched again.

Small.

Controlled.

Still there.

Ilya swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay where he was, to not move, to not step out of line and cross the space between them.

“Last one!”

Another flash.

Then—

“Alright, that’s it. You’re good.”

The room shifted immediately.

Chairs scraped back, voices picked up again, people already turning toward the exits, conversations starting up like nothing had happened.

Ilya’s eyes went straight to the front row.

Shane was already out of the room.

Ilya stepped forward instinctively wanting to follow—

“Rozanov!”

He stopped and turned to face whoever had called him.

Colorado’s captain had caught him, stepping into his space, already mid-sentence about something from last night’s game.

Ilya responded where he had to, nodding at the right moments, offering short answers, but his attention wasn’t there. It stayed fixed somewhere behind him, on the door Shane had just disappeared through.

The conversation dragged longer than it should have.

By the time Ilya managed to step away and make it back to the locker room, he already knew what he was going to find.

Shane’s stall was empty.

His gear was gone, nothing left behind to show that he had been there at all.

Ilya stood there for a second, looking at the space, something tight settling in his chest.

Then he moved.

Faster now.

His own gear came off in practiced motions, stripped away and packed without the usual care. Pads, jersey, everything shoved into his bag, left there without a second thought. The league would take care of getting it to Columbus.

He grabbed his travel bag instead, already pulling his phone out again as he headed for the exit and ordered an uber.

—

The ride felt too slow.

Even when the driver took the fastest route.

Even when the streets were clear.

Ilya sat forward in his seat the whole way, one hand gripping his phone, eyes focused on the image of the car on the screen getting closer to Shane’s apartment, the other braced against his thigh which wouldn’t stop bouncing.

By the time the car pulled up outside Shane’s building, he was already reaching for the handle.

“Thanks.”

The door shut behind him before the driver could respond.

He moved quickly, punching in the code at the front entrance, the familiar sequence automatic under his fingers.

Inside.

Elevator.

Up.

Another code at Shane’s door.

The lock clicked open and Ilya stepped inside, shutting the door behind him as he kicked off his shoes, his bag dropping to the floor without care.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Then—

A sound, from the kitchen.

Ilya moved toward it immediately, rounding the corner — and stopped.

Shane stood at the sink with his back to him, both hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His shoulders were drawn up, tense in a way that looked almost painful, like he was holding himself together by force alone.

“Shane?”

It came out quieter than Ilya meant it to.

Shane turned.

Their eyes met.

And whatever had been holding him together all day finally broke all at once.

Shane dropped, sliding down against the cabinets, his legs giving out beneath him as the first sob tore out of his chest, loud and uncontrolled, like it had been building all day with nowhere to go.

Ilya didn’t hesitate.

He was on the floor beside him in an instant, arms already reaching, pulling Shane into his lap, anchoring him there before he could fold in on himself completely.

Shane clutched at him immediately, fingers gripping tight in the fabric of his shirt, his face pressed into Ilya’s shoulder as the sobs kept coming, one after another, raw and unrestrained.

“I have you,” Ilya murmured, his hand coming up to the back of Shane’s head, holding him there, steady and firm. “I am here.”

Shane didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just cried, the sound filling the space between them as everything he’d held in finally broke loose.

And Ilya held him, tightening his arms around him, keeping him safe on the kitchen floor, just letting him fall apart.

One arm stayed locked around Shane’s back, holding him close, keeping him anchored against his chest. His other hand remained firm at the back of Shane’s head, fingers spread through his hair, pressing him gently into the space beneath his chin, and Shane clung to him.

There was no control left in it now — no effort to keep anything contained. His hands fisted in the back of Ilya’s shirt, knuckles tight, his whole body shaking with the force of it as the sobs kept coming. Loud and broken, tearing out of him in waves.

And Ilya just held him.

He didn’t try to quiet him. Didn’t shush him or rush him through it. He kept his arms tight and his presence solid, letting Shane fall apart exactly as much as he needed to.

“I have got you,” he murmured quietly, the words pressed into Shane’s hair, barely louder than the sound of his breathing. “I am here.”

Shane only held on tighter.

The minutes stretched.

Ilya lost track of how long they stayed like that on the kitchen floor, but by the time his foot had started to fall asleep, Ilya felt it — the first shift.

The sobs didn’t stop all at once, but they started to space out. The sharp, overwhelming cries easing into something quieter. Shane’s grip didn’t loosen, but his breathing slowed.

Ilya’s hand at the back of his head shifted slightly.

His fingers began to move, slow and gentle, brushing back and forth through the shorter strands at Shane’s crown. Not enough to overwhelm him, just a steady, grounding motion. Something soft to contrast everything else.

Shane’s breathing hitched every now and then, a quiet sob catching in his chest, followed by a sniff as he tried to pull himself back together.

Ilya didn’t stop. He kept the rhythm the same, his thumb occasionally brushing lightly behind Shane’s ear, his palm warm and steady against him.

After a while, Shane moved.

Just slightly.

His face shifted where it had been pressed into Ilya’s shoulder, turning just enough that his temple rested against Ilya’s collarbone instead. It gave Ilya just enough space to move.

He leaned down without thinking, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to Shane’s forehead.

“I am here,” he murmured softly. “You are safe now.”

His lips brushed against his skin again, lingering there for a second.

“This is safe space.”

Shane didn’t answer.

But his arms stayed tight around Ilya, still holding on, his body heavy against him, the occasional quiet sniff breaking the silence between them.

Ilya pressed another kiss to his forehead, softer this time.

Then he shifted slightly, tightening his hold just enough to prepare.

“I am going to move us, okay?” he said quietly.

There was a pause.

Then the smallest nod against his chest.

That was all he needed.

Ilya slid one arm down, careful and steady, tucking it under Shane’s knees while keeping his other arm firm around his back. He adjusted his grip, making sure he had him secure — and then stood up in one smooth motion.

Shane reacted immediately, his arms tightening around Ilya, holding on as he left the ground, his body instinctively pressing closer.

“I have got you,” Ilya murmured again, low and certain.

He carried him across the apartment to the couch easily, years of hockey making this an easy task.

Ilya sat down carefully, holding Shane close as he lowered them both onto the cushions, adjusting just enough so Shane was settled comfortably against him.

But Shane’s arms stayed wrapped tight around him.

Ilya just shifted slightly, settling back into the couch, one arm still wrapped around Shane, the other returning to the back of his head, fingers sliding gently through his hair again.

Shane didn’t move away.

His face stayed tucked against Ilya’s chest, his breathing uneven but no longer breaking apart. Every now and then there was a soft hitch, a quiet sniff, but the worst of it had passed.

After a while, Shane shifted slightly. Just enough to tilt his head back a fraction, like he needed to look at Ilya. His eyes were red, lashes still damp, his expression worn in a way that made something in Ilya’s chest tighten.

“You’re here?” Shane asked quietly.

Ilya frowned a little, confused by the question.

“Of course,” he said.

Shane blinked at him, a look of concern making his brow furrow slightly.

“Your flight,” he said, voice rough. “You were supposed to—”

“I changed it,” Ilya said simply.

Shane went very still.

For a second he just looked at Ilya.

Then his face crumpled again. His eyes squeezed shut as more tears slipped free, his forehead dropping back against Ilya’s chest as a shaky breath left him.

“Ilya—” he started, voice catching.

Ilya’s arm tightened around him immediately.

“Shane?” he said, softer now.

Shane shook his head slightly, one hand coming up to wipe briefly against his face before wrapping around Ilya again. He let out a small, disbelieving huff of a breath.

“You changed your flight,” he said again, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You could get benched for that.”

Ilya shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“This is more important. You are more important.”

Shane let out another shaky breath. He tucked himself back in closer, pressing under Ilya’s chin, his arms tightening around him like he needed to hold on again.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Ilya didn’t answer with words, he just pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, lingering there for a second before settling back.

They sat like that for a while longer, the apartment quiet around them again, Shane’s breathing slowly evening out where he was curled into him.

Ilya let the silence stretch.

Then, gently—

“Do you want to talk to me about today?”

Shane sighed.

“I hate haircuts,” he whispered.

For a second, Ilya thought he’d misheard him.

“...oh,” he said, a little uncertain.

Shane nodded against his chest, a small movement, followed by another soft sniff.

Ilya’s hand didn’t stop moving in his hair.

He leaned down, pressing another gentle kiss to the top of Shane’s head, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“Oh, dorogoy,” he murmured softly.

Shane shifted, like he was trying to tuck himself even closer under Ilya’s chin.

Ilya’s arm tightened around him automatically, holding him there.

“I thought…” Ilya started slowly, his voice quiet, careful. “I thought maybe it was all the people today. The noise. Too much going on.”

Shane sniffed again, his fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

“That didn’t help,” he admitted quietly. “But… then they gave me that haircut and it just—” His voice trailed off.

Ilya felt something twinge in his chest.

His mind started moving, going back over the last few months, picking up pieces he hadn’t understood at the time. The way Shane had been off after certain days. Quieter. A little withdrawn. Harder to read.

“I think…” Ilya said slowly, his fingers still brushing through Shane’s hair, “it is always like this for you, yes?”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“I just never—” Ilya frowned slightly. “I did not notice before.”

Another sniff.

“I used to plan it,” Shane said, his voice still quiet, a little rough from crying. “Back when you were in Boston.”

Ilya stilled just slightly, listening.

“I’d check the schedule,” Shane continued. “Make sure I had a couple weeks before we played each other again. So I wasn’t…” He hesitated. “Like this.”

Ilya’s chest tightened.

“But this year…” Shane let out a small, frustrated breath. “I didn’t think about Ottawa’s schedule. I just… kept booking them like normal and it kept lining up wrong and—” he huffed weakly. “I fucked it up every time.”

Ilya’s hand stilled for a second before starting again, gentler now.

“Why didn’t you change it?” he asked quietly. “Move appointment to different day?”

Shane shook his head.

“Because I have to go,” he said, like it was obvious. “Every six weeks.”

Ilya frowned.

“Why?”

Shane shifted slightly, like the question itself confused him.

“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he said. “Everyone says that. Six weeks.”

There was a pause.

Then Ilya exhaled softly, his expression softening. Something about Shane’s explanation made his heart ache.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Shane’s head again.

“Oh no, solnyshko,” he murmured gently. “You do not have to do that.”

Shane went still.

“What?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, just enough to meet Shane’s eyes, one hand still cradling the back of his head.

“That is not rule,” he said softly. “It is… suggestion. A guideline. For people who want to keep same style.”

Shane just stared at him.

“You can go whenever you want,” Ilya continued. “You can wait longer. You can not go at all for a while. It is your hair.”

The words landed and Ilya saw the moment they sank in.

Shane’s face crumpled again. His eyes filled with tears, his mouth pulling tight as he tried to breathe through it.

“I—” he shook his head slightly, voice breaking. “I’ve been doing that every six weeks for as long as I can remember because I thought I had to.”

Ilya’s heart twisted.

He pulled Shane back in immediately, one hand firm at the back of his head again, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips staying there, his voice low and steady. “No. You do not have to do that if you do not want to.”

Shane let out a small, broken sound, his face pressing back into Ilya’s chest as the tears slipped free again.

Ilya held him closer, tightening his arms just enough to remind him he was there.

“No one makes you,” he continued softly. “You choose. Always.”

Shane stayed tucked in against him, his face pressed into Ilya’s chest, his breathing still not quite even.

Ilya’s hand moved slowly through his hair, the same steady motion.

After a moment—

“What part do you not like?” he asked quietly. “About haircuts.”

Shane didn’t answer straight away.

Ilya felt the slight shift where he was pressed against him, like he was thinking, trying to find where to start.

“It’s just…” Shane muttered. “A lot.”

Ilya’s arm tightened a little.

“A lot?” he echoed softly.

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Someone’s always touching you,” he said after a second, voice still rough. “It just doesn’t stop.”

Ilya’s thumb brushed lightly behind his ear.

“Okay,” he murmured.

“And the barbershop…” Shane exhaled through his nose. “It smells weird. Strong. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Ilya said quietly.

“And it’s loud,” Shane added. “Like… all the time. Clippers, people talking, music—there’s no break from it.”

Ilya leaned down, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“Mm.”

Shane’s fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.

“I ask for scissors,” he said. “Usually.”

Ilya stilled just a fraction.

“No clippers?” he asked gently.

Shane shook his head against him.

“No.”

“Why?”

Shane hesitated.

Then, quieter—

“I can feel them,” he said. “Like… not just on my head. It’s—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s too much.”

Ilya pulled him in closer immediately, one hand still firm at the back of his head.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

A small pause.

“Today was really bad,” Shane said.

Ilya didn’t interrupt.

“Too many people,” Shane went on. “I couldn’t move. It felt like everyone was watching, and then some of them were laughing.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened slightly.

“And she just…” Shane’s breath caught a little. “She didn’t ask.”

Ilya’s arm tightened around him.

“The clippers,” Shane said, quieter now.

Ilya pressed a slow kiss to his forehead.

“I know.”

Shane’s face pressed harder into his chest.

“I could feel it,” he said again. “All of it. Everywhere.”

“I know,” Ilya repeated softly, his hand moving through his hair again, slower now. “I know.”

He held him closer.

“I am sorry,” he murmured. “I am so sorry, dorogoy.”

Another kiss, gentle, grounding.

“They should have asked,” he added, quieter but firmer underneath. “That is not okay.”

Shane nodded faintly.

Ilya’s hand didn’t stop moving.

“You did so well though,” he said softly.

Shane let out a small breath.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stayed,” Ilya replied. “You got through it.”

A pause.

“That is something.”

Shane didn’t argue this time.

They stayed like that for a while, neither of them speaking, Shane still curled into him, Ilya’s hand moving slowly through his hair.

After a moment, Ilya’s fingers stilled.

He shifted slightly, just enough to lean down.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly. “My hand in your hair?”

Shane nodded against him without hesitation.

“It’s okay. It’s different,” he murmured. “When it’s you.”

Ilya’s chest tightened a little.

“It’s not too much,” Shane added, softer now. “Just… enough.”

Ilya leaned down and pressed another gentle kiss to his head, letting it linger for a second before settling back again, his hand returning, slower now, more careful.

It was minute before he spoke again.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked.

Shane frowned slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“What?”

Ilya watched his face, then said, a little more clearly,

“I am guessing… maybe four weeks until next haircut, yes?” A small pause. “What do you want to do?”

Shane went very still.

Ilya felt it immediately.

Shane’s hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing over the shorter hair there before pressing in slightly, like he was trying to feel how much had been taken off.

His eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s so short, Ilya,” he whispered. “It’s too short.”

The tears came again.

Not loud this time, not breaking him open like before — but steady. Hot. Slipping down his cheeks without him trying to stop them.

Ilya moved immediately.

His hand slid from Shane’s hair to his face, thumb brushing gently under his eye, catching the tears as they fell.

“Is okay,” he murmured softly. “I am here.”

Shane’s breathing hitched, another wave hitting him, quieter but just as heavy.

Ilya wiped at his cheek again, gentler this time, his palm warm against his skin.

“I have you,” he said.

Shane’s eyes opened then, red and wet, tears still slipping free as he looked up at him.

“What do I do, Ilya?” he asked, his voice breaking on the words.

Something in Ilya’s chest twisted hard at that.

He pulled him in immediately, tighter this time, one arm locking around his back, the other coming up to hold him close, pressing Shane’s head firmly against him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his cheek resting against the top of Shane’s head.

Shane clung to him again, his fingers gripping tight in his shirt as the tears kept coming, quieter now but no less real.

“You do not have to decide anything right now,” Ilya said softly. “It can wait. Until morning, yes?”

He paused, just for a second, his hand steady at the back of Shane’s head.

“I know today was hard,” he continued, voice low and careful. “Very hard.”

Another small pause.

“But your hair…” he added gently, “it looks okay.”

He felt Shane shift slightly against him, listening.

“It is not how you usually have it,” Ilya said. “But it is not bad. Just shorter version.”

Shane didn’t respond, but his grip tightened again.

Ilya pressed a soft kiss into his hair.

“You are still you,” he murmured.

Shane’s tears soaked into the front of his shirt, warm and steady, but Ilya didn’t move and didn’t loosen his hold.

They stayed like that for a while longer, Ilya’s arms still wrapped around him, his hand resting warm at the back of Shane’s head. The tears had slowed again, not gone completely, but quieter now.

After a few minutes, Ilya shifted.

He moved them sideways along the couch, adjusting his weight, and gently guided Shane with him. One arm stayed secure around his back as he moved, the other steadying him as he pulled him down until Shane was stretched along his chest, half on top of him, their legs tangled together on the cushions.

Shane went without resistance, settling there instinctively, like he didn’t have the energy to question it. His head found its place beneath Ilya’s chin again, one arm still wrapped tight around his side.

Ilya adjusted slightly, making sure he was comfortable, one hand returning to Shane’s hair, fingers sliding slowly through the shorter strands.

They lay there in silence.

Just breathing.

Ilya let it stretch. Let Shane relax as much as he could, feel the weight of him, the way his body had started to soften again after everything.

After a while, he spoke.

“Okay, I have idea. We are going to take shower,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady above Shane’s head. “Hot. Wash all of this day off, okay?”

Shane didn’t answer straight away, but Ilya felt the small shift of his head against his chest. Listening.

“Then we are going to bed,” Ilya continued, his fingers still moving through his hair in slow, even strokes. “And I will hold you so you can sleep.”

His thumb brushed lightly behind Shane’s ear, a small, absent movement.

“And tomorrow,” he added softly, “we wake up and I am here and we will make another plan. Together. I will help you, okay?”

There was a long pause.

Then Shane nodded. Just once. Small, but certain.

Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of his head, letting it linger there.

“I have you,” he murmured again, quieter this time.

Shane’s grip tightened slightly in response, his face pressing a little closer into Ilya’s chest.

Ilya didn’t move straight away.

He let a few more quiet minutes pass, his hand still moving slowly through Shane’s hair, his other arm firm around him.

Then, gently—

“Come on,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Time for shower and then bed.”

Shane made a small noise, something soft and tired, but he didn’t pull away.

Ilya shifted, guiding him upright, keeping one hand steady at his back as he stood. Shane followed, slower this time, his weight leaning into Ilya.

“I have you,” Ilya said quietly.

He kept his hand around Shane’s waist as he led him down the hallway, through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

The lights flicked on and the room filled with a soft, warm glow.

Ilya reached past him and turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature without looking, waiting until the water ran steady and hot.

Then he turned back to Shane.

“Okay,” he said softly.

His hands were gentle as he reached for the hem of Shane’s shirt, lifting it slowly. Shane raised his arms, letting it be pulled away.

Ilya moved carefully, undressing him piece by piece, moving easily through the motions.

Shane let him.

By the time Ilya stepped out of his own clothes, Shane was standing there in just his underwear, shoulders still a little tight, eyes a little distant again.

Ilya didn’t comment, he just made the move and pulled his underwear down, letting Shane hold onto his shoulder for balance as he stepped out of them, before taking Shane’s hand

“Come on.”

The water was warm when they stepped under it, steam already starting to fill the space around them.

Shane flinched slightly at the first contact, then settled, his shoulders dropping a fraction as the heat seeped in.

Ilya stayed close.

One hand at his waist, the other reaching for the shampoo.

“Lean back,” he murmured.

Shane did, trusting, letting Ilya guide him.

Ilya worked slowly, his fingers careful as they moved through Shane’s hair. The scent was familiar, the same one Shane always used, and he made sure to work it all the way through, rinsing thoroughly, letting the water carry everything away.

A couple of small trimmings washed from his neck and Ilya made sure to wash them out properly. Nothing left behind.

His kept his touch steady and Shane’s breathing shifted.

Ilya glanced down and saw tears again. He leaned in without thinking, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, then another just beneath it.

“I have you,” he murmured.

Shane shook his head slightly, like he didn’t have words for it, his hands coming up to rest lightly against Ilya’s sides.

“I know,” he said, voice small.

Ilya’s chest tightened.

He rinsed the last of the shampoo out, then reached for Shane’s face wash, working just as carefully, making sure to clean away the last of the makeup, his thumbs gentle against Shane’s cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

By the time he was done, Shane looked more like himself again. Not fully there yet, but closer.

Ilya turned the water off and the quiet rushed back in.

He reached for a towel immediately, wrapping it around Shane first, rubbing slowly, drying him off without letting the cold creep in.

Then himself.

Clean clothes were easy to find. Opting only for underwear for the both of them, something easy that wouldn’t tug or pull.

“Come on,” he said again, softer now, leading them both back to the bedroom.

The sheets were still a mess from that morning, twisted and pulled loose, a reminder of what they had been up to. Luckily they hadn’t left a mess, so Ilya just pulled them back enough to get them both in.

Shane went down first this time, settling into the mattress with a quiet exhale.

Ilya followed immediately, pulling him close, guiding him back into his chest, one arm wrapping around his back, the other coming up to rest at the back of his head again and Shane melted into him.

They lay there in the quiet, the room dark and cool, the only sound was their breathing slowly evening out.

Ilya’s hand moved lazily through Shane’s hair.

Then he huffed out a small breath of a laugh.

Shane made a quiet, confused noise against his chest.

“What?” he murmured.

Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“The captain from Calgary,” he said. “He was wrong today.”

Shane shifted slightly, just enough to look up at him, his brow faintly furrowed.

“What?”

Ilya smiled, small and soft.

“He said they would have to do more than cut your hair to make you pretty,” he said. “But he is very wrong.”

Shane huffed weakly, already trying to tuck his face back into Ilya’s chest.

“I’m not—”

Ilya didn’t let him finish.

“Oh no, Hollander,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You are very pretty.”

Shane made a quiet, embarrassed noise, trying to hide further.

Ilya’s thumb came up to his cheek, brushing lightly over the freckles there.

“Beautiful freckles,” he said softly.

His thumb shifted, tracing down to his mouth, brushing gently over his lips.

“Nice smile.”

Then higher, smoothing lightly over his closed eyelids.

“Kind, sparkly eyes.”

Shane’s face had gone warm under his hand.

Ilya leaned down, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

“Perfect skin,” he added quietly.

Shane let out a small, muffled sound, pressing further into him.

Ilya just held him closer.

“They are just jealous,” he murmured. “Even with all of that—” he gestured slightly toward nowhere in particular, meaning the shoot, the styling, everything— “they will never be as pretty as you.”

Shane didn’t answer.

But his arms tightened around Ilya again.

And this time, when Ilya’s hand settled back into his hair, Shane didn’t flinch at all.

—

Ilya woke slowly.

He didn’t open his eyes straight away. Just lay there, half under the weight of sleep, half aware of the warmth pressed against him.

Shane was still wrapped around him. One arm across his chest, one leg hooked over his, his face tucked in close.

Ilya tightened his grip instinctively, pulling Shane in a little closer as he pressed a slow kiss into his hair.

“I can hear your brain thinking from here,” he murmured.

Shane scoffed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as he shifted, twisting slightly in Ilya’s hold before settling again.

Ilya’s lips brushed his hair once more.

“Mm,” he hummed, quieter now. “What is it, dorogoy?”

Shane didn’t answer straight away.

Ilya felt the breath he let out, slow and heavy.

“What’s the plan?” Shane asked after a moment, his voice still a little rough with sleep.

Ilya exhaled softly, pressing another kiss to the top of his head.

“Solnyshko,” he murmured, voice warm. “First, we have breakfast.”

Shane gave a small nod against him and started to shift, like he was about to sit up.

Ilya tightened his arm immediately, pulling him back down.

“Not yet,” he complained lightly. “Too early.”

Shane huffed quietly, but didn’t fight him.

For a second, it was still again.

Then Ilya’s stomach growled.

Loudly.

Shane lifted his head just enough to look at him.

Ilya sighed.

“Okay,” he muttered. “So maybe is time for food.”

That got a small smile from Shane.

They took their time getting up, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies before moving into the kitchen.

Ilya started breakfast, pulling out what they needed, handing things off to Shane without thinking about it. Shane followed along easily, slotting into it beside him.

They stood close while they cooked, shoulders brushing now and then, Ilya’s hand settling briefly at Shane’s waist when they stood side by side.

They sat at the table and ate side by side, the quiet between them easy this time.

Afterwards, Shane stood to gather the plates.

“I’ll—”

“I will help,” Ilya cut in, already on his feet.

They moved around each other in the kitchen, falling into a familiar rhythm again. Wash. Dry. Put away.

When the last dish was done, Ilya reached for Shane’s hand.

“Come on,” he said pulling him gently into the living room.

They sat down on the couch together, close enough that their knees brushed.

Ilya didn’t let go of his hand.

Instead, he shifted, turning slightly so he was facing him, their hands still linked between them.

Shane’s thumb moved slightly against Ilya’s, like he was thinking, like he was trying to figure out where to start.

“I should—” he began, his voice a little unsure. “We should probably—”

Ilya squeezed his hand gently.

“Wait,” he said, softer.

Shane stopped.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, trying to catch his eye.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Shane’s gaze dropped immediately, his shoulders pulling in just a fraction.

“I’m… okay,” he said, but it came out quieter than he probably meant it to.

Ilya didn’t push.

He just watched him for a second, then lifted their joined hands slightly, brushing a kiss against Shane’s knuckles.

“Better than yesterday?” he asked.

Shane nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Ilya leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

“Good,” he murmured.

They sat like that for another second, the tension easing just a little.

Then Ilya shifted, still holding his hand.

“So,” he said, a little lighter now. “What do you want to do?”

Shane froze.

It was small, but Ilya felt it immediately — the way his hand went still in his.

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted after a moment.

His fingers tightened slightly.

“I’ve got appointments booked,” he said, staring somewhere just past Ilya’s shoulder. “All the way through to July.”

Ilya frowned a little.

“All of them?”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah. I just… book them out in advance. One every six weeks.”

A pause.

“I don’t bother over summer,” he added. “When we’re off.”

“Ah,” Ilya said softly. “I wondered why you never had haircut at cottage.”

Shane nodded again.

“It’s only because my barber goes on holiday,” he said. “That’s the only reason.”

Ilya couldn’t help it — he let out a small laugh.

Shane looked up at him immediately.

Ilya squeezed his hand, shaking his head.

“No, no,” he said quickly, smiling. “I am not laughing at you, moya lyubov. I am laughing at situation.”

He lifted Shane’s hand, pressing another kiss to his knuckles.

“Of course you only take break because your barber does,” he added, softer now.

Shane ducked his head, a little embarrassed.

“I didn’t want to be rude,” he muttered.

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya said gently. “You would not be rude. Is okay to do what you want sometimes.”

Shane nodded, his shoulders loosening slightly as he leaned forward, resting his head against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya turned his head, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “So. Do you want to cancel next one?”

Shane nodded straight away.

“Yeah.”

He hesitated, then spoke again, quieter.

Ilya didn’t catch it fully.

“What?”

Shane swallowed.

“I think I want to cancel all of them,” he repeated.

“All of them? Shane, is only February?” Ilya said.

Shane nodded, still avoiding eye contact.

“I know.”

Ilya’s arm came up around his shoulders immediately, pulling him in a little closer while their other hands stayed linked in his lap.

“Okay sweetheart,” he murmured. “We can do whatever you want.”

Shane nodded against him.

Ilya brushed his thumb over his hand again.

“Do you want me to call and cancel?”

Shane shook his head.

“No. I can do it on the app.”

“Okay,” Ilya said easily.

He leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to his hair before getting up and heading toward the bedroom. Shane’s phone was still on the charger beside the bed.

Ilya grabbed it and came back, settling down beside him again, pulling him back in close without thinking.

Shane unlocked his phone, opening the booking app.

His thumb hovered for a second before he tapped into the first appointment and hit cancel.

A box popped up.

Shane went still.

“Ilya,” he said quickly, his voice tightening. “It’s asking me for a reason.”

Ilya felt the shift immediately.

Shane’s breathing changed, just slightly, and where he was pressed against him, Ilya could feel his heartbeat starting to pick up.

Ilya’s arm tightened around him.

“Is okay,” he said quietly.

Shane shook his head, staring at the screen.

“I don’t—what do I put?” he said, a little panicked now. “I can’t just—what if—”

“Hey,” Ilya cut in gently.

He reached over, his free hand coming up to steady Shane’s wrist, not stopping him, just grounding the movement.

“You do not have to explain,” he said softly. “You can write anything. Or nothing.”

Shane’s grip tightened on the phone.

“It feels—” he exhaled sharply. “It feels rude.”

Ilya leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Is not rude,” he murmured. “Is your appointment. You are allowed to cancel.”

Shane didn’t move.

So Ilya stayed right there with him, his thumb moving slowly over the back of Shane’s hand again.

“Write something simple,” he suggested quietly. “Change of plans. That is enough.”

Shane swallowed.

His thumb moved, slow and hesitant, typing the words out.

He stared at it for a second.

Then hit confirm.

The screen changed.

Appointment cancelled.

Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, his shoulders dropping slightly as he leaned back into Ilya.

Ilya pressed another kiss into his hair.

“See?” he murmured. “All done. One down, three to go.”

Shane huffed out a laugh as he clicked on the next appointment, typing out the same reason ‘Change of plans.’

When all four appointments were cancelled, he let out a long breath, louder this time, like he was letting go of the stress of the last couple of days. His hand went slack and he dropped his phone onto the couch before sinking back into Ilya.

He looked exhausted.

Ilya didn’t say anything right away. He just pulled him in closer, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other coming up to the back of his head again, holding him steady as he pressed a slow kiss into his hair.

“I am proud of you,” he murmured.

Shane’s arms came back around him without hesitation, tighter this time. He breathed in slowly, face tucked against Ilya’s neck.

For a minute, neither of them spoke.

Then, a soft — “So what do I do now?”

Ilya’s hand moved through Shane’s hair, fingers slipping gently through the shorter strands.

“You let it grow,” he said. “And you only book haircut when you want one.”

Shane nodded against him, but after a second—

“But what if I don’t like it long?”

Ilya smiled, his expression soft, a smiling pulling at his lips. He dipped his head, pressing another kiss into his hair.

“I love the way your brain thinks, moya lyubov,” he murmured.

Shane made a small, embarrassed noise, but didn’t pull away.

“But if you do not like it long,” Ilya continued, his voice still gentle, “then you get it cut again. This just means you do not have to go every six weeks.”

His thumb brushed lightly at the back of Shane’s neck.

“You have choice now,” he added. “You can go when you want. And not go when you do not want.”

Shane was quiet for a moment, taking that in. Then he nodded.

“I don’t think I want to go back to my barber,” he said. “The shop is too much.”

Ilya nodded easily.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we find somewhere else.”

Shane shifted slightly, just enough to look up at him.

“Maybe Marco when you come to Ottawa?” Ilya said with a shrug.

“Mm,” Shane hummed. “Maybe.”

Ilya pressed another kiss to Shane’s hair. “Maybe Marco does house calls?”

That got a soft huff of a laugh out of Shane.

“Maybe,” he echoed again.

“Is okay,” Ilya added after a second, “we will find someone. A quiet place. No noise. No rush.”

Shane’s arms tightened slightly around him again.

“We will make it better for next time,” Ilya said.

Fifteen months later, it was June and another season was over.

Ottawa hadn’t made playoffs, and Montreal had had their run ended in the third round, just missing out on the final.

As much as it hurt to not play for the cup, in a way Shane was okay with that, it meant he got to spend another week with Ilya during their limited time together during the summer.

Shane was at the counter in Ilya’s kitchen in Ottawa, when Ilya came up behind him, a hand settling at his hip without warning, the other already reaching up.

“Stay still,” Ilya murmured.

Shane huffed softly, but didn’t move.

Ilya’s fingers slid through his hair, slow and familiar. It had gotten long enough now that it caught between his fingers properly, down to where it sat just below Shane’s shoulders.

He tugged lightly, enjoying the feeling of it slipping between his fingers.

“Is long,” he said.

Shane snorted under his breath.

“Yeah. I’ve heard.”

Ilya hummed, knowing that every man and his dog had made a comment about Shane’s ever-growing hair this season.

Still moving his hand, he pushed it back from Shane’s face, tucking a loose piece behind his ear, his fingers lingering there for a second before slipping back into it again.

Shane leaned back into him without thinking.

“They won’t shut up about it,” he added after a second, a little quieter now.

“Mm.”

“My team, the media, you’ve heard what they say. And my mum—” he huffed out a breath. “Every time I talk to her it’s ‘Shane, it’s getting so long.’”

Ilya’s arm came around his waist properly then, pulling him back against his chest.

“And what do you say?” he asked.

Shane shrugged, the movement small with the way Ilya was holding him.

“Nothing. Just… ‘yeah, maybe.’”

Ilya’s fingers slowed slightly in his hair.

“But you still do not make another appointment,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Shane shook his head.

“No.”

A small pause settled between them.

Ilya leaned down, pressing a slow kiss into his hair.

“Good,” he murmured.

Shane huffed out something that might have been a laugh, his head tipping back slightly so it rested against Ilya’s shoulder.

“It’s annoying sometimes,” he admitted. “It gets in the way. It’s hot. I keep having to push it back all the time.”

Ilya made a quiet sound, like he was listening, his thumb brushing lightly along Shane’s temple.

“But you still keep it.”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

Ilya didn’t rush it. His hand stayed where it was, moving slowly, his fingers scratching against Shane’s scalp.

Shane exhaled.

“I don’t feel like I need to do anything with it,” he said finally.

Ilya’s arm tightened slightly around him again. His hand moved to push the hair from Shane’s neck before he ducked his head to press a kiss at his nape.

“Because you don’t,” he said.

Shane’s shoulders dropped a fraction at that, like something eased just from hearing it out loud.

Ilya pressed another kiss into his hair. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Shane hesitated, just for a second.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Yeah. I think so.”

Ilya smiled against him, soft enough that Shane didn’t see it.

“Is the right answer,” he murmured.

Shane let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, and leaned back into him properly this time, letting his weight settle.

Ilya’s hand slid through his hair again, slower now.

“I like that you never push me,” Shane said after a moment. “You are the only one who has never asked when I’m getting it cut.”

“Never,” Ilya said, his nose resting against Shane’s ear. “Is not my choice. And I love you, I do not care what hair you have. If you are happy, I am happy.”

Shane closed his eyes, letting out a breath.

“Thank you. I can’t believe it’s been over a year and people still won’t let it go.”

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s cheek.

“People are annoying,” he said, his breath tickling Shane’s ear.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Also, you look very handsome with long hair,” Ilya added, almost under his breath.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away.

“Shut up.”

Ilya just huffed softly, his nose brushing the side of Shane’s head before he pressed another kiss to his temple.

“No. I am your boyfriend. I will always say you look beautiful, even when others are being assholes.”

Shane huffed softly at that, but there was no real bite to it.

“You don’t have to say it every time,” he muttered, even as he leaned back into him again.

“I do,” Ilya said easily. “Is very important job.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched slightly, the hint of a smile pulling at the corner.

After a moment, Shane shifted, turning in Ilya’s hold so he could look at him properly. One of his hands came up without thinking, pushing his hair back off his own face again before it could fall forward.

Ilya caught his wrist gently before it dropped.

“Wait,” he said.

Shane frowned a little, but stayed still.

Ilya used his free hand to push the loose strands back himself, tucking them behind Shane’s ear again, smoothing them into place like he’d done a hundred times before. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly along Shane’s cheek before dropping.

“Better,” he murmured.

Shane huffed out a quiet breath.

“It just keeps doing that,” he said. “I swear it wasn’t this annoying a few months ago.”

“Is longer now,” Ilya said simply.

Shane snorted.

“Yeah. I know how hair works.”

Ilya smiled slightly, his hand settling back at Shane’s waist, thumb brushing absent patterns there.

There was a pause, easy, quiet.

Then—

“I was thinking,” Shane said, a little more hesitant now, his eyes focused on the floor.

Ilya waited.

Shane glanced at him briefly before looking away again, his fingers coming up to toy with the ends of his hair where it rested against his shoulder.

“Before we go to the cottage,” he added, slower this time. “I might… need a haircut.”

Ilya didn’t react straight away.

His hand stilled for half a second at Shane’s hip, then resumed, steady as before.

“Okay,” he said.

That was it.

Shane blinked, like he’d expected something else.

“I just—” he started, the words coming a little quicker now. “I don’t want to go back to a barbershop. I don’t— I don’t know anywhere here and I don’t want it to be like last time and—”

“I know,” Ilya cut in gently.

Shane stopped.

Ilya shifted slightly, bringing his other hand up to cup the side of Shane’s neck, tilting his head up to meet his gaze.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Shane didn’t hesitate.

“Always.”

Ilya nodded once.

“Okay,” he said. “I will fix it.”

Shane let out a breath, something in his shoulders loosening at the certainty in his voice, even if he didn’t fully know what that meant yet.

“Okay,” he echoed, quieter now.

Ilya leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, slow and brief, before pulling back just enough to look at him.

“I will make it okay,” he added.

Shane nodded again, his hand still curled loosely in the ends of his own hair.

—

The following week, Ilya was in the kitchen when Shane got back from his parents’ house.

He heard the door before he saw him, the quiet thud of it closing, the soft sound of Shane dropping his keys in the bowl. A second later, Shane stepped into the doorway.

Ilya didn’t say anything right away. He just crossed the space between them and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s mouth.

“Hi,” Shane murmured.

“Hi,” Ilya replied softly.

He didn’t pull away completely. His hands came up instead, taking Shane’s, holding them between them. Shane let him, but there was a slight tension there, something uncertain.

Ilya took a breath.

“I organised something,” he said.

Shane’s brow furrowed slightly, his shoulders pulling in just a fraction.

“What?” he asked.

Ilya tightened his hold on his hands, just enough to keep him there.

“You do not have to say yes,” he said quickly. “You can say no. Is completely okay.”

That didn’t help the confusion.

Shane blinked at him, a little wary now.

“Ilya—”

“I asked Marco to come over,” Ilya said.

Shane stilled.

“Marco?” he repeated.

“He cuts my hair,” Ilya clarified, watching him carefully.

Shane froze properly then. His hands went still in Ilya’s, his eyes dropping to the space between them.

Ilya stepped closer immediately, squeezing his hands.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Is okay. You do not have to get haircut. I just—” he exhaled, steadying himself. “I thought maybe this is easier for you. He is set up in the bathroom. And he is very good at privacy. He will not tell anyone about us.”

Shane didn’t move.

So Ilya kept going, slower now, gentler.

“He will do whatever you want,” he said. “Just trim, or shorter, or nothing. Is up to you.”

Still nothing.

Ilya’s thumb brushed lightly over Shane’s knuckles.

“And if you do not want haircut today,” he added, “he can just cut mine and then go.”

That got a reaction.

Shane’s eyes flicked up to his face, his expression still unsure, still tight around the edges.

“I can go first,” Ilya continued. “You can watch. Or you go first. Or we send him away. You choose.”

Shane blinked.

Then his eyes filled.

Ilya’s stomach dropped.

“Oh—hey,” he said quickly, one hand coming up to cup Shane’s cheek, his thumb brushing at the tear that slipped free. “Oh, sweetheart, I did not mean to scare you. I am sorry.”

Shane shook his head immediately.

“No,” he said, his voice catching. “No, it’s not that.”

Another tear slipped down and Ilya wiped it away without thinking.

“I just—” Shane swallowed. “I can’t believe you did this. For me.”

Ilya frowned slightly, softer now.

“Of course,” he said. “Anything for you.”

Shane nodded, still a little overwhelmed, still not quite meeting his eyes.

Ilya leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at him.

“What do you want to do?” he asked quietly.

Shane hesitated.

His fingers tightened slightly in Ilya’s, his gaze dropping again for a second before he forced it back up.

“You first,” he said.

Ilya held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay.”

He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Shane’s ear, his fingers lingering there for just a second.

Then he took his hand again.

“Come on.”

Ilya led him down the hallway and into the downstairs bathroom, not letting go of his hand as Shane stepped inside and slowed to a stop.

The space was the same but different. The lights had been dimmed, soft enough that nothing felt too sharp, and one of their dining chairs had been brought in and set up in front of the mirror. Another sat off to the side.

Marco was already there, standing at the vanity, setting out his tools.

Shane took it all in quietly, his hand still holding onto Ilya’s, his shoulders a little tight as he looked around.

Ilya didn’t rush him. He stayed where he was for a second, letting him see everything, letting him take it in before he gave his hand a small, reassuring squeeze.

“Come,” he said gently, tugging him forward just enough.

Shane followed.

“Marco,” Ilya said as they moved further into the room, “this is Shane.”

Marco looked up straight away, offering an easy smile.

“Hey,” he said.

Shane gave a small smile back, polite, a little uncertain but there.

“Hi.”

Ilya let go of his hand then, just long enough to sit down in the chair in front of the mirror before reaching over to drag the second chair closer to him.

“Sit,” he said, glancing at Shane.

Shane did, lowering himself into the chair to the side of him. It took him a second to adjust, but then he shifted slightly, stretching one leg out until his foot brushed lightly against Ilya’s ankle.

Ilya glanced down at the contact, then back up over at him, a small grin pulling at his mouth before he let himself relax back into the chair.

Marco stepped in behind him, shaking out the cape and settling it over his shoulders, fastening it at the back of his neck with practiced ease.

“What are we doing today, Ilya?” he asked.

Ilya looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, taking in the length, the way it had grown out.

“Just a good trim, I think,” he said. “Maybe an inch? Clean up the ends. Make it look healthy again.”

Marco nodded, already reaching up, his hands moving through Ilya’s hair as he pushed through the curls, lifting sections, checking the length like he always did before starting.

“Easy,” he said.

The spray bottle came next, a fine mist settling over Ilya’s hair as Marco dampened it properly, combing through to even everything out before setting it aside and picking up his scissors.

The first snip was soft, barely louder than the quiet in the room.

Ilya felt himself relax even more, his shoulders dropping as he leaned back into the chair, letting Marco work. He’d always liked this part — being still, letting someone else take over for a bit — and it came easy to him, slipping into that familiar calm without thinking about it.

Marco started talking after a minute, something casual, something they’d talked about a dozen times before, and Ilya answered easily, the conversation picking up without effort. They’d known each other long enough now that it didn’t take much.

Still, Ilya’s attention wasn’t fully in it.

His eyes flicked to the mirror every so often, catching Shane’s reflection where he sat beside him.

Shane was quiet, hands folded loosely in his lap, his posture still but not rigid. He was watching, following the movements, taking it in piece by piece.

Ilya didn’t try to pull him into the conversation.

He just let him watch.

He watched as Shane’s eyes followed each piece of cut hair falling from Marco’s fingers to the floor. Watching as the pile of curls on the floor grew with every cut.

He watched Shane never take his eyes off of Marco, as if he was making sure he did exactly what Ilya had asked.

Marco now moved around to start on Ilya’s right side, trimming off more dead ends, the steady, quiet rhythm of the scissors filling the space again as more damp curls fell away in small, soft pieces.

Ilya let out a breath, relaxed and comfortable, his body loose in a way that came naturally during a haircut.

He just hoped that maybe this time, Shane might feel even a little bit of that too.

It took another twenty minutes before Marco slowed, his hands moving more deliberately now as he combed through Ilya’s hair one last time, checking the length, the shape, making small adjustments where needed.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Take a look.”

Ilya leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking over his reflection in the mirror. He tilted his head once, then the other way, taking it in properly before a grin spread across his face.

“Is perfect,” he said.

Marco smiled, already reaching to unfasten the cape, shaking it out as he pulled it away, the loose curls falling to the floor in soft, damp pieces.

Ilya stood as soon as he was free, turning without hesitation.

Shane was already looking up at him.

Ilya stepped closer, stopping just in front of him, his grin still there.

“So,” he said, tipping his head slightly. “What do you think? Do I look good?”

Shane’s cheeks flushed almost immediately. He ducked his head, trying to hide it, but Ilya caught the small smile that pulled at his mouth.

“You always look good,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya’s grin only widened.

“I know,” he said easily.

He held his hand out.

Shane hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting Ilya pull him to his feet. There was a slight stiffness in the movement, something careful about it, but he went.

Ilya guided him forward, stopping him in front of the chair.

“Here,” he said softly.

Shane looked at it for a second before lowering himself down, slower this time, almost hesitant.

Ilya moved straight into the space Shane had just vacated, dragging the chair closer until it was right beside him, close enough that his knees pressed into Shane’s thigh.

Shane didn’t look at him.

His gaze stayed forward, fixed on his reflection in the mirror.

Ilya watched his profile. They way his jaw tightened just slightly, how Shane’s eyes stared straight ahead, the way his mouth stayed fixed, not a smile or a frown, instead trying to hide any and all emotion.

He reached out, leaning forward, taking Shane’s left hand between both of his own, steady and warm, and then moved so their hands rested together on his knees.

Again, Shane didn’t move, still not giving anything away.

Marco stepped back into place behind Shane, not reaching for the cape yet.

“Okay, so what are we thinking today?” he asked.

Shane swallowed.

“I—” he started, but nothing followed.

Marco didn’t push.

“Is it alright if I touch your hair?” he asked instead.

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

Marco’s hands came up slowly, giving him time, fingers sliding carefully into the longer strands, lifting sections, letting them fall again as he worked through it.

He moved the hair around, checking how it sat, how it fell around Shane’s face, the ends brushing against his shoulders.

“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked after a moment.

Shane swallowed again, then nodded.

Ilya’s grip tightened slightly around his hand, his thumb brushing once over the back of it.

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly.

Marco shifted slightly, still working through the strands as he spoke.

“I’d like to take about an inch off,” he said. “Clean up the ends, get rid of the damage. That’ll bring it up just above your shoulders.”

He adjusted the front pieces as he talked, showing him.

“And then I’d add some layers around here,” he continued, guiding the hair lightly around Shane’s face. “Give it a bit more movement, so it won’t sit so heavy.”

He let the hair fall again.

“Right now it’s a bit…” he paused, searching for the word. “Flat.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, quickly covering it, his thumb brushing over Shane’s hand again.

Shane didn’t react to that.

He was still looking at himself, watching the way Marco had moved his hair, the way it sat differently when lifted, when shaped.

Marco didn’t rush him.

He just waited.

After a few seconds, Shane gave a small nod.

“Okay,” he said. “That sounds… okay.”

Ilya squeezed his hand gently in response.

Marco nodded once, satisfied, before stepping away to grab the cape.

Ilya didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, their hands still linked, his attention fully on Shane now.

The cape settled over Shane’s shoulders a moment later, fastened carefully at the back of his neck.

As soon as Marco’s hands dropped away, Ilya shifted, squeezing Shane’s hand and tugging gently, guiding it back out from under the cape, resting once more on his knee.

Ilya didn’t let go of his hand.

He watched as Shane sat there, still and quiet, his fingers held tightly in his own, his gaze fixed forward while Marco moved around behind him.

The spray bottle came up first.

Marco didn’t drench it, just a light mist, enough to make his hair easier to work with. The damp strands darkened slightly, and Shane’s shoulders tensed for a second before easing again.

Ilya felt it.

He tightened his grip just slightly.

Marco combed through carefully, working out any tangles before he started sectioning, parting the hair cleanly and twisting the longer pieces up, clipping them out of the way at the top of Shane’s head.

It exposed the length underneath.

Marco stepped closer, placing two fingers lightly at either side of Shane’s head, his thumbs guiding gently.

“Look down for me,” he said.

Shane did, his chin dipping without hesitation.

Ilya shifted his grip, steadying.

Marco combed through the first section, pulling it straight before bringing it up between his fingers.

The scissors came up.

Ilya squeezed Shane’s hand.

The first cut was clean.

A small section fell, sliding down the back of the cape before dropping to the floor, landing among the lighter curls already scattered there. The darker strands stood out against them immediately.

Ilya didn’t look away from Shane.

He could see it in him — the tension still sitting just under the surface, the way his focus stayed fixed, the way his breathing had shifted slightly.

He couldn’t see what was happening behind him.

So Ilya stayed exactly where he was, his thumb moving slowly over the back of Shane’s hand, squeezing every so often, something steady and predictable.

Marco worked methodically, moving from one section to the next, the soft rhythm of the scissors filling the room again.

It didn’t take long before he stepped back slightly.

“Lift your head for me,” he said.

Shane did.

His eyes flicked up to the mirror straight away.

Ilya watched his expression as he took it in.

The length was still there. The ends sat just at the top of his shoulders now, lighter, a little more shape to it already.

Shane’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

Marco reached up, unclipping one of the sections at the top, letting more hair fall down around his face before he started again, this time taking a little more length, adjusting as he went to build the layers they’d talked about.

Ilya leaned forward slightly without thinking, still watching him.

That was when he saw it.

The shine in Shane’s eyes, the way one tear gathered at the corner before it slipped free.

Ilya waited until Marco turned away to grab something before he moved.

His hand came up gently, brushing the tear away before it could fall further, his thumb warm against Shane’s cheek.

He made a quiet sound, low in his throat.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Shane’s gaze dropped, just for a second, as Ilya wiped another tear away.

He nodded his head once.

“I’m okay,” he said, quiet but steady.

Ilya didn’t push.

He just nodded, his hand dropping back down to where their fingers were still linked, squeezing once, his thumb brushing over his skin again in the same slow, familiar rhythm.

Marco kept working, his movements steady and unhurried as he shaped the front, taking a little more length as he continued to create the layers. The pieces fell forward as he cut, soft strands slipping down over Shane’s face, but nothing too short — nothing that couldn’t be tucked back behind his ears.

Ilya watched closely.

Shane stayed still, his gaze fixed on his reflection, but as more of the shape came through, something shifted. It was small — easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it — but Ilya saw it immediately. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders dropping just slightly again as he took it in.

His eyes softened.

Ilya’s thumb still brushed slowly over the back of Shane’s hand.

Another few minutes passed like that, quiet except for the soft rhythm of the scissors, before Marco stepped back a little, combing through everything again, checking the balance, making small adjustments where needed.

Then he stilled.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Shane swallowed, his eyes flicking over his reflection as he turned his head slightly, first one way, then the other, watching how it moved now.

The layers sat differently. Lighter. Softer.

He looked up at Marco, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“I like it,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Ilya felt something in his chest loosen at that — the certainty in it, the way Shane said it without hesitation.

Marco nodded, satisfied, already reaching up to unfasten the cape, shaking it out so the loose hairs fell to the floor before stepping away to start packing up his tools.

Ilya gave Shane’s hand one last squeeze before letting go, pushing himself to his feet. He crossed the room, thanking Marco properly, shaking his hand and walking him out to the door.

“Text me when you need another appointment,” Marco said easily.

“I will,” Ilya replied.

Then the door closed, and the house went quiet again.

When Ilya stepped back into the bathroom, Shane was still sitting in the chair.

Just… looking at himself.

“Shane?” Ilya said, softer now, moving back toward him.

He came to a stop just behind him, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Shane looked up—

And then it hit.

The sob came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, breaking through the quiet like something tearing open.

Ilya moved immediately.

“Hey— hey—”

He stepped in front of him, hands already reaching, pulling Shane up out of the chair and into him, one arm wrapping tight around his back, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head.

Shane folded into him without resistance, his arms locking around Ilya’s waist as the tears came harder now.

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya murmured into his hair, holding him close. “Shhh. You are okay, sweetheart. I am here.”

Shane nodded against him, his grip tightening.

Ilya didn’t rush him. He just stayed there, steady, holding him through it, his hand moving slowly at the back of his head.

After a while, Shane’s breathing started to even out again. He sniffed, pulling back just slightly.

Ilya followed the movement, his hand coming up straight away to wipe gently at the tears on his cheeks.

“Dorogoy,” he said softly. “Are you okay? Was it too much? I am sorry—”

Shane shook his head before he could finish.

“No,” he said, voice rough but certain. “No, it wasn’t.”

Ilya stilled, watching him carefully as he wiped the last of the tears away.

Shane gave a small, shaky smile.

“For the first time in my life,” he said, a little quieter now, “a haircut was easy.”

Ilya’s breath caught.

“Oh, Shane,” he whispered, his thumb brushing under Shane’s eye again as fresh tears slipped free. “Oh, my Shane… I am so happy for you, sweetheart.”

He pulled Shane back in without hesitation, holding him just as tightly as before.

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Then Ilya sniffed.

Shane pulled back this time, blinking up at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, softer now.

Ilya nodded quickly, a small laugh breaking through.

“I am okay,” he said. “I am just… very proud of you. And very happy that you are happy.”

Shane smiled properly at that, reaching up to wipe at the tear on Ilya’s cheek before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Ilya turned his head, catching his lips in a quick kiss before pulling back just enough to look at him again.

“Do you want to shower?” he asked.

Shane nodded.

They didn’t rush it.

The water ran hot, steam filling the space as they stepped under it together, the spray washing away the last of the loose hairs from their skin. Ilya’s hands moved through Shane’s hair again, gentler this time, rinsing through the fresh cut, enjoying the feeling of the strands between his fingers.

Shane leaned into him easily.

After a minute, Ilya spoke again, his voice quieter over the sound of the water.

“You know,” he said, “there was player in Columbus. He built a barbershop in his house, and his barber came over whenever he need haircut.”

Shane huffed out a small laugh.

“Of course he did.”

Ilya shrugged slightly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his mouth.

“Maybe when we finally live together,” he said. “We do the same. Build room just for this. Soft lights. No noise. And Marco comes to us.”

Shane shook his head, smiling now.

“That sounds a bit excessive, Ilya.”

Ilya kissed him again, slower this time, his voice low against his lips.

“Lucky for you,” he murmured, “we are both very, very rich.”

Shane laughed properly at that, pushing his wet hair back off his face before leaning in to kiss him again.

Ilya watched him as he pulled back.

Really looked at him.

And for the first time—

Shane was calm and happy after a haircut.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to everyone for your lovely feedback on chapter 1. I got too overwhelmed to reply, but I have read every comment and every message and maybe had a little cry.

This one follows a little bit more of book canon than show canon

Shane was sitting up against the headboard, the room still quiet, morning light just starting to peek in through the curtains.

At some point, Ilya had shifted, turning into him, settling with his head in Shane’s lap.

Shane’s hand was in his hair.

His fingers moved slowly through the curls, scratching gently, then sliding through again. He twisted one loosely, let it slip free, then found another. It was almost meditative.

Ilya made a soft sound, low in his throat, and shifted a little closer, his nose brushing against Shane’s thigh.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep.

Shane’s hand didn’t stop.

“Mm.”

Ilya shifted again, tipping his face up just enough to look at him.

“Awake for long?”

Shane’s fingers slowed for a second, then kept going.

“Don’t know.”

Ilya hummed. He reached up, letting his hand rest against Shane’s thigh, thumb brushing back and forth against the skin under the hem of his boxers.

“Sun is up,” he said after a moment. “Big day today.”

Shane’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair, then loosened again.

“Yeah.”

Shane could feel Ilya's eyes on him. He still didn’t look down.

Ilya shifted, pressing in a bit closer where he was already half tucked against him, his cheek against Shane’s stomach.

“Shane,” he said, softer this time, a little more awake. “I can hear your brain thinking from here.”

Shane blinked, finally looking down at him properly.

Ilya was already looking up at him, a small smile on his face, trying to hide his look of concern.

Shane huffed quietly and moved his hand, pushing the curls back from Ilya’s forehead.

Ilya’s eyes slipped closed straight away, leaning into it, turning his face so he could nuzzle in closer.

“Mm,” he hummed.

Then, after a second—

“What is going on in your pretty little head, sweetheart?”

Shane shook his head.

“Nothing.”

His fingers kept moving through Ilya’s hair in the same slow rhythm, hoping that Ilya would just drop the subject and they could move on with their day.Just get through it and then come home again.

Instead Ilya hummed, like he didn’t believe him for a second.

“I don’t think that is the truth,” he murmured.

Shane still didn’t answer. His stomach sank. He knew he could never hide anything from his husband.

Ilya shifted slightly in his lap, tilting his head just enough to try to catch his gaze.

But Shane wasn’t looking down anymore.

“Hey,” Ilya said, quieter now. “Talk to me.”

Shane huffed under his breath, shaking his head.

“It’s stupid.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed again, like that didn’t mean anything to him. “Tell me anyway.”

Shane shook his head again, a little sharper this time.

“No. It’s—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening. “It’s nothing.”

Ilya was quiet for a second.

Shane’s fingers kept moving through his hair, the pace had changed, his movements a little more erratic rather than calming now .

Ilya made a soft sound, before—

“Is this about my haircut?”

Shane’s hand froze.

Just for a second.

His stomach tightened, sharp and sudden, his heart rate sped up and he shook his head quickly.

“No.”

Ilya’s brows pulled together slightly, still looking up at him.

“You don’t like it?”

Shane looked down at him so fast it almost hurt.

“No—Ilya, no,” he said quickly, his hand pushing back through Ilya’s hair again, a little more firmly this time. “It looks amazing. I promise.”

Ilya held his gaze for a second longer, then hummed, soft again.

“Okay.”

But he didn’t look convinced.

Shane looked away first.

His hand slowed again, fingers slipping through the short curls, but he couldn’t quite get back into the same rhythm.

Something in his chest felt tight.

Ilya shifted again, trying to catch his eye, but Shane just tipped his head slightly the other way.

“Are you nervous about today?” Ilya asked after a moment.

Shane shrugged.

“Maybe.”

Ilya’s hand squeezed lightly at his hip.

“It will be okay,” he said, voice soft, certain. “I will be there.”

Shane nodded.

“I know.” The words came out quiet. He muttered something else after it, too low to catch.

Ilya frowned slightly.

“What?”

Shane shook his head again, leaning it back against the headboard, exhaling slowly through his nose.

His fingers were still in Ilya’s hair.

He felt ridiculous, and stupid.

He swallowed, his throat tight and dry, before letting out a slow breath.

“…I think my hair looks awful.”

Ilya pushed himself up immediately at that, confusion written all over his face as he now sat facing Shane..

“What?”

His hand came up without thinking, brushing through the long strands where they fell over Shane’s shoulder.

Shane almost pulled back.

Almost. But he didn’t.

He still wasn’t able to make eye contact, he kept his gaze fixed forward, avoiding Ilya’s look of concern, instead just letting Ilya’s hand move through his hair, his fingers gentle and familiar.

Ilya tucked a piece behind his ear, still watching him.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “It does not look—”

Shane shook his head before he could finish, eyes closing briefly.

“I should’ve—” he stopped, took a breath, tried again. “I should’ve got it cut before today.”

Ilya’s hand stilled in his hair for a second.

Then he caught another strand, running it between his fingers.

“Why did you not tell me last week?” he asked, gentler now. “We could have had Marco come here. I did not have to go to him if I knew Shane.”

Shane shook his head again, and more hair fell forward into his face.

Ilya pushed it back again, slower this time.

“Shane?”

Shane let out a shaky breath.

“It’s so stupid.”

Ilya didn’t try to argue this time. He didn’t rush him. God, he was so patient with Shane.

One hand stayed in his hair, fingers smoothing through the ends, while the other found Shane’s hand where it rested in his lap, curling around it, thumb brushing slowly over Shane’s wedding band, twisting it slowly around his finger, like he knew Shane did when he was nervous or upset.

And he just waited.

Finally Shane swallowed.

His chest felt tight, like he’d already said too much but also not enough at the same time.

“When you said you were getting your haircut last week,” he started, voice quieter now, “I was going to ask if Marco could come here instead and trim mine too.”

He paused, breath catching slightly, eyes now fixed on a loose thread on the bedspread.

“But then you said you were gonna have a lot cut off and I—” he let out a short, frustrated breath. “I don’t know. I just—”

He shook his head, words starting to come too fast now, his breathing too shallow.

“I freaked out, and then I couldn’t ask, and it was too late and I felt stupid and it is stupid, I know it is, I just—”

“Hey,” Ilya said softly, tightening his hold on his hand.

Shane stopped. His chest heaved with the struggle to take a breath. 

“Breathe,” Ilya murmured.

Shane dragged in a breath, shaky at first, then slower when Ilya’s thumb kept twisting his wedding ring.

“Again.”

Shane did, this time a little steadier.

Ilya stayed close, one hand still in his hair, the other holding onto him, not letting him spiral away.

“I am here,” he said quietly.

And Shane nodded, even though his eyes were now fixed somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder, not quite ready to look at him yet.

Shane could feel Ilya still watching as his breathing started to slow, Ilya's hand coming up to rub gently across Shane's cheek, his warm palm settling against his jaw.

Ilya didn’t say anything straight away. Just waited, watching him, thumb moving slowly back and forth until Shane’s breaths evened out.

“I am sorry for scaring you.”

Shane’s gaze snapped up, meeting Ilya's properly for the first time, and he could already feel the sting in his eyes, tears gathering before he leaned into Ilya’s hand.

“No—Ilya, fuck, no,” he said quickly. “You didn’t scare me. I scared myself.”

He took a breath, shaky at first.

“I just—got in my head about it. And I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t ask for what I wanted… again.”

His gaze dropped again almost immediately, but Ilya’s hand followed, fingers curling under his chin to lift it back up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped free.

He didn’t rush him.

Just stayed there, close, waiting.

Shane’s eyes drifted down again anyway, settling on where their hands rested in his lap. “…why?” he asked quietly.

Ilya hummed, a soft questioning sound.

Shane bit at his lip, shaking his head like he wanted to take it back.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

But Ilya didn’t let it go.

“Why did I cut my hair?”

Shane gave a small nod, still looking at their hands.

He felt Ilya’s quiet huff of laughter against his cheek before he leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to Shane’s lips, soft and quick, before shifting, moving up to sit beside him instead.

His arm came around Shane’s shoulders easily, pulling him in.

Shane went without thinking, leaning into him, his head settling back against Ilya’s shoulder.

He liked it like this. It was easier like this. There was no pressure to make eye contact.

His left hand moved automatically, finding Ilya’s, slotting their fingers together, the soft clink of their rings making him smile softly.

Ilya didn’t start talking straight away.

He waited for Shane to relax.

Only when Shane let out a small breath, sinking properly into him, did he speak.

“I liked having it long,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Was funny when I could put it up in little ponytail at the back. But it was getting annoying. Too much work to wash.”

Shane’s thumb moved slowly over Ilya’s ring as he listened.

“And I didn’t want messy hair for photo shoot today,” Ilya continued. “So I told Marco to chop it off. Was easy choice.”

He paused for a second, then added, softer—

“Also, I know you like it like this.”

Shane felt the smile against his hair before Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He hummed quietly, swallowing.

After a moment, Ilya tilted his head slightly, turning to look down at Shane.

“You have more questions, yes?”

Shane huffed out a small breath, something almost like a smile pulling at his mouth. Sometimes he couldn't believe just how well his husband knew him.

“…what did it feel like?” he asked quietly.

Ilya was quiet for a second.

“What did it feel like for me,” he asked, “or what it felt like to have long hair cut shorter?”

Shane shrugged against him.

Ilya leaned down slightly, his cheek brushing against the top of Shane’s head.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “are you asking because you are curious, or because you are anxious?”

Shane shrugged again, smaller this time.

“…maybe both.”

Ilya’s arm tightened slightly around his shoulders, holding him closer.

“Just because I cut my hair,” he said gently, “does not mean anyone is making you cut yours.”

Shane shut his eyes briefly.

“I know.”

Ilya hummed, the sound, low in his chest, vibrating through Shane where he was leaning against him.

“But is okay, I can answer,” he said after a moment. “I do not mind cutting off lots of hair. I like knowing I can do what I want.”

He shifted slightly, settling more comfortably.

“I did it before. After awards ceremony, many years ago when I won MVP in Vegas, then we—well, you know what we did.” There was a small smile in his voice. “Remember that season? I had what you call a ‘man-bun.’ My hair was so long then. I thought I looked good.”

Shane let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“But my father was not happy when I went home to Russia,” Ilya continued, shrugging slightly. “So I cut it all off. My hair was very short after that and it made me feel… sad and maybe little bit angry. Because I did not want to. Also I was nervous you would hate it.”

Shane squeezed Ilya's hand, while Ilya paused for a second.

“But this time, I wanted it. I wanted change.”

Shane’s thumb kept moving over his ring.

“It felt good,” Ilya said. “When Marco cut it. Lighter. Easier. It does not panic me to look in mirror while he cuts.”

He shifted his head slightly, brushing another kiss into Shane’s hair.

“And after, there was big pile of it on the floor. But I felt better.”

His hand squeezed Shane’s gently.

“Does that answer your questions? Make you feel better?”

Shane shrugged.

Not really.

Ilya was quiet for a second, then—

“Shane?”

Shane sighed softly. “You do look so good,” he said, voice quieter now. “You remind me of… Tampa. When we were there for All Stars.” He swallowed. “Your hair was perfect. You had it pushed back after being in the pool with the kids and I’d never seen you look so—”

“Beautiful?” Ilya cut in.

Shane let out a small laugh, nodding.

“Yeah. Well, until our wedding day.”

Ilya squeezed his hand.

“But?” he prompted.

Shane exhaled slowly.

“But I think I’m anxious about today.”

His fingers tightened slightly around Ilya’s.

“What if it’s like the last photo shoot? The one with all the captains.” He swallowed. “I don’t want that to happen again, Ilya.”

Ilya’s arm tightened around his shoulders.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It does not have to happen.”

He squeezed him gently.

“There will be hairstylist there, yes. But if they say anything—” He paused, then added, quieter but certain— “You can say no.” Another small squeeze. “And this time, if you need me too, I can also say no.”

Shane stayed leaning against Ilya for a while longer before he signed, and finally moved to get out of bed, Ilya following behind him.

They didn’t talk much as they went through their summer morning routine. It was the same as always. Coffee, something quick to eat, moving around each other in the kitchen without really thinking about it, a familiarity that only the two of them understood.

Ilya brushed past him a couple of times, hand at his waist, shoulder bumping his, little touches just because he could. Just because he loved Shane.

They brushed their teeth side by side, Ilya leaning in at one point to spit, knocking their shoulders together, and Shane huffed softly through his nose. Ilya grinned at him in the mirror, toothpaste still in his mouth, and Shane rolled his eyes, trying to hide his smile.

By the time they left, Shane felt steadier. He wasn’t excited, but he wasn’t feeling as anxious.

Ilya drove.

Shane didn’t need to pay attention to where they were going. He sat quietly, just watching the road blur past, his hand resting loosely on his thigh until Ilya reached over and took it, squeezing once before pulling it across and settling it on his own leg.

Their fingers stayed linked for the rest of the drive.

It wasn’t until they pulled into the parking lot that Shane felt the tug in his chest again.

He looked up, taking in the number of cars that were already there. There were a lot more than he’d been expecting. And more cars meant more people

His shoulders tightened, something in his chest pulling taut again.

Ilya turned the engine off, then turned toward him, still holding Shane’s hand tightly in his own. He lifted it, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

Shane closed his eyes and took a breath. He held it for a second before letting it out slowly.

Ilya didn’t say anything. He just watched him, quietly waiting.

Shane opened his eyes again, meeting his gaze, and then gave a small nod.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Ilya grinned, bright and immediate, and was out of the car before Shane had even unbuckled his seatbelt.

He came around to Shane’s side, opening the door and reaching for his hand again, and Shane took it as they walked in together.

Shane could feel his heart picking up, but he kept his grip on Ilya’s hand. His thumb rubbing idly against Ilya’s skin.

It still felt strange, sometimes.

Being out like this. Being seen.

They’d been married a year. Playing on the same team for a season, travelling together, sharing hotel rooms, everything out in the open now, and still—

Sometimes it caught him off guard.

How easy it was and how he was allowed to now love out loud.

He tightened his grip slightly, just for a second and Ilya squeezed back without looking at him.

Inside, they didn’t get much of a chance to take everything in. They were greeted, and then immediately guided through to hair and makeup. Shane could barely kept track of everyone’s names.

They were sat down side by side in front of the mirrors, and before Shane had a chance to sit, Ilya was already shifting his chair closer, the legs scraping softly against the floor as he nudged it closer, sitting himself down and pressing their knees together.

Shane looked down at the connection, letting out a small breath.

The stylist came over and introduced herself as Taylor, smiling as she stepped behind Ilya first, calling over her assistant and giving quick instructions.

“Just keep his curls natural, but a bit more refined,” she said, already moving.

Then she stepped in behind Shane.

Her hands came up into his hair.

Shane shifted immediately, his shoulders tightening, and his stomach dropping. His heart picked up, faster now.

But he kept his eyes on the mirror.

Ilya reached over without hesitation, taking his hand.

Shane looked at him, meeting his eyes through the reflection. They could do that now, public displays of affection. It was almost expected.

Ilya gave him a small smile.

Shane returned it, just barely.

Taylor ran her fingers through his hair again, lifting sections, looking at the ends.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, tone light. “Would you be okay if I gave you a bit of a trim?”

Shane froze.

“Your hair is amazing,” she continued easily, like it was just another day. To her it was, but to Shane it felt like a nightmare. “It’s just that the ends are a little thin, and if it’s okay with you, I’ll just do a dusting, take off the split ends, and then you’ll be good to go.”

Shane hated the way his body felt. The tension in his shoulders. The way his chest tightened.

This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted. Being asked like this. Being put on the spot, with no time to think.

He hated feeling like this. He thought that maybe the last year might have helped him calm down. That maybe it might have improved how he reacted to unexpected changes. But it hadn’t.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He could see Ilya watching him in his peripheral vision, could feel his hand, solid and warm, holding his own.

Shane tossed up the options in his head.

If he said no—

He’d see it in every photo. Every single one. The stringy ends, the reminder of how he had been too afraid to book an appointment for himself the week before. It would be all he could focus on.

But if he said yes—

He didn’t know how it would feel, a different persons hands in his hair. She said just a trim, but would it be a trim like Marco gives him, never taking off more than he wanted. Or would it be a ‘trim’ where she says just the ends, but then she gets scissor happy and Shane has to watch as inches are cut away.

If that were to happen, Shane didn’t know if he’d be able to hold it together.

He looked at Ilya in the mirror.

Ilya squeezed his hand again, letting Shane know he was there if he needed him.

Shane could see it — he was ready to step in, ready to say something for him.

But instead, Shane took a breath, swallowed and got ready to speak.

“Okay,” he said, voice a little rough. “Just a trim.”

Taylor grinned.

“Don’t worry, honey, you won’t even be able to tell,” she said easily. “I’ll just freshen up the ends and it will look so much better on camera.”

Shane nodded.

Ilya’s hand tightened around his again.

Taylor disappeared for a second and came back with a cape, shaking it out before settling it over Shane’s shoulders, fastening it at the back of his neck. He hated seeing himself like this, it always made him feel like he was trapped.

Ilya gave his hand another squeeze, almost as if he could read Shane’s mind. Their fingers stayed tangled together under the cape, now hidden from view.

Taylor stepped away again, coming back with a spray bottle and a comb. She spritzed Shane’s hair lightly, dampening it before working the comb through, easing out any knots.

“You have so much hair,” she said easily, breaking the silence. “I can tell you take really good care of it.”

Shane didn’t answer.

He just watched in the mirror as she worked, his grip tightening slightly around Ilya’s hand.

“It’s gorgeous,” she went on, lifting a section, letting it fall. “I would kill for this much hair. You really suit it longer too.”

Shane swallowed, eyes fixed on his reflection.

She paused for a second, hands hovering as she looked at the shape of it.

“Do you want me to clean up your layers a bit more?” she asked, gesturing lightly. “Just here—” her fingers moved through the front, showing him where she meant. “Nothing major. Just a little bit more of a reshape.”

Shane hesitated. Just for a second, taking in the suggestion, before he nodded.

“Okay.”

Taylor smiled and got to work, sectioning his hair with practiced ease, clipping pieces away before starting at the back.

Shane watched in the mirror as Taylor brought her scissors up and made the first cut. He saw the small piece fall, landing against the cape and sliding to the floor; it was barely more than a quarter of an inch. Just a dusting, exactly as she had said.

His shoulders dropped slightly and he felt his heart rate slow down.

It really was just a trim.

Taylor worked her way through his hair slowly, taking off barely anything, just the ends. The comb moved through, the scissors followed, and each time the pieces that fell were barely anything.

Shane kept watching, tracking every movement, every piece of hair that fell, terrified that something bad was going to happen.

After a minute, he glanced sideways and caught Ilya’s gaze in the mirror.

Ilya grinned at him, easy and bright, while the assistant continued to work through his curls, fingers moving, shaping them into something more defined than the mess he’d walked in with earlier.

Shane let out a small breath, but he still didn’t feel completely okay.

There were too many people. Too much movement in the background, multiple voices overlapping, people constantly walking past, some stopping to talk. There was a lot of laughter, loud in a way that made his shoulders tighten again even though he knew it wasn’t about him.

It was just… a lot.

It was nothing like home. Nothing like the quiet of their bathroom, where Marco moved around in the space that Shane knew; where everything was familiar and predictable.

His grip tightened again and Ilya squeezed back immediately. His thumb moved over Shane’s ring, slow and steady, twisting it gently around his finger, the same way he had earlier while they were in bed.

Shane tried to focus on that instead. On the feeling of the warm metal rather than the chaos of the room around them.

Taylor kept working, moving to the front now, pulling the longer pieces forward, trimming carefully, reshaping the layers around his face.

Shane watched as Taylor worked. He wasn’t as tense as he had been before. This wasn’t like last time. But he wasn’t relaxed either. He felt like he was just… there. Not enjoying it, but not hating it as much as he had thought. This time he it was easier to just let it happen.

Taylor finally finished the last section, checking the shape, adjusting a few pieces before reaching for the hairdryer, and the noise filled the space immediately. The warm air felt good against his scalp. Taylor’s fingers worked to lift sections as she dried it, styling as she went.

Shane blinked, refocusing on himself in the mirror.

By the time she was done, Ilya was already finished, sitting back with his eyes closed while the assistant worked over his face with light makeup, his curls sitting perfectly.

Shane watched him for a second. A small smile tugging at his lips as he watched his husband relax under someone else hands. He knew that Ilya loved this.

Shane switched his attention back to himself as Taylor put the final touches on his hair, before moving to her own make up kit, getting to work on giving Shane a bit of coverage. Finally she stepped back and removed the cape, shaking any last trimmings to the floor.

“All done,” she said brightly.

He thanked Taylor and remained in his seat as she patted his shoulder before moving to pack up her station, swapping things into a bag at her waist that she would be able to grab for touch ups once they were on set.

Shane took a moment to really look at himself. His hair looked fine, but he was still left with a tingling sensation under his skin. The environment was uncomfortable and it left him feeling  twitchy and unsettled. But at least his hair looked better. Not quite the same as when Marco did it, but good enough that it wouldn’t bother him when he looked back on the photos later.

Beside him, Ilya opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at him.

“You look pretty,” he said.

Shane ducked his head immediately, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

Ilya grinned. He reached out, fingers slipping under Shane’s chin, lifting his face back up just enough to meet his eyes, and he winked, then leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s lips.

Not even a moment later Shane and Ilya were being whisked away by their handler and ushered down another hallway and into wardrobe.

This room was much smaller than where they had just been. Screens had been set up to give them somewhere to change and a variety of outfits were hung on multiple racks set up around the walls. Thankfully there was just one other person in there with them

Shane looked around at the calmer environment, hoping to get at least a moment to breathe.

He didn’t.

They were handed pieces almost immediately, different outfits being passed back and forth, fabrics draped over arms, options laid out quickly as the wardrobe assistant talked them through what the magazine wanted. Shane could barely keep track of what she was saying, his head was spinning as he was pushed behind a screen with his first outfit.

He stripped down to his underwear quickly, changing behind the screen while she moved around the room, pulling more things and talking to Ilya.

Shane focused on the routine of it.

Shirt off. Pants off. Step into something new. He tried to think of it as just another day in the locker room. Outside clothes off, uniform on. Only this time his ‘uniform’ consisted of a dark, navy-blue suit with no shirt.

Across the room, Ilya was laughing at something, easy and bright, completely at home in a way that made it look effortless. He turned this way and that as the assistant adjusted something on him, asking questions, offering opinions, like he’d been doing this his whole life.

He was made for this.

Shane watched him for a second from behind the screen, then looked away again, ducking his head to focus on buttoning up his blazer.

His head started to swim as he finally let the feeling of the suit on his skin take over.

He swallowed, trying to slow his heart rate down.

But it wasn’t just the clothes, it was everything.

The leftover feeling from the haircut still sitting under his skin, and now this — new fabrics, different textures, tags brushing where they shouldn’t, seams rubbing against skin that usually would have been protected by a softer dress shirt, the faint smell of detergent that wasn’t theirs.

It was too much all at once and he could feel the panic building. The tightness in his chest became sharper, there was a lump forming in his throat that he couldn’t swallow down no matter how hard he tried. He felt his eyes start to burn with unshed tears. His cheeks heating up at the embarrassment of it all.

He was in his thirties for fucks sake. He’d been practicing getting his haircut how he liked for a few years now. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this anymore.

And the worst part was, he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know what he could do that wouldn’t make it worse for himself.

He felt pressured to perform. They were on a schedule. People were waiting, relying on him to be perfect. Everything had been moving so quickly since they’d arrived and he didn’t want to be the one to slow it down.

He didn’t want to be difficult.

By the time he stepped fully out from behind the screen, he was really on edge.

The suit did sit perfectly on him, jacket pulled on over bare skin, no shirt underneath like they’d asked. It looked good. He knew it did.

But he could still feel everything.

He kept his eyes down, focusing on a spot on the carpet instead of the assistant as she stepped closer, adjusting the jacket, tugging at the sleeves, smoothing the front.

“Yeah, this works,” she said, mostly to herself.

Shane nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling slightly.

The assistant stepped behind him and he risked a glance up, only to find that Ilya was already looking at him.

Shane could read his expression easily — the question, silent but clear.

Are you okay?

Shane looked away, unable to maintain eye contact, his gaze dropping back to the floor.

He couldn’t answer that. Not here. Not like this, not with a stranger in the room.

He could see Ilya take a step towards him, and he heard him clear his throat, the movement soft but deliberate.

“Could we have room for a moment? I promise we will not take too long” Ilya asked. His voice was easy and polite, like it was nothing. Things like that came so easily to him.

The assistant paused, glancing between them, something flickering in her expression as she took them in properly for the first time.

Then she nodded.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll just be right outside.”

The door clicked shut behind her and the room was quiet again, the noise from outside now muffled and distant.

And Ilya was there immediately. His hand came up to Shane’s shoulder, squeezing tightly, steady and warm as he dipped his head, trying to catch Shane’s eye.

But Shane turned, shaking his head slightly and keeping his gaze focused on the floor. He couldn’t make eye contact — not yet anyway.

Ilya let out a soft sigh. “Oh, moya lyubov … come here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just stepped closer and pulled Shane into him, his arms wrapping around him carefully, one hand settling between his shoulder blades, and the other coming up to cradle the back of his neck without disturbing anything that had just been done to his hair.

Shane went without thinking, pressing in close, his arms wrapping tightly around Ilya’s waist, and his forehead pressed into Ilya’s neck as he exhaled, the tension in his body still there but not as painful when he was held like this.

“They really should do hair and makeup last,” Ilya muttered under his breath, voice low, almost to himself. “Is dangerous to do it before clothes and hugs. Stupid even. Because now I want to kiss you so badly, but do not then want to look like horny teenagers with everything smudged.”

Shane let out a small huff against him, something close to a laugh.

Ilya felt it and tightened his hold just a little, his fingers gently scratching at Shane’s scalp.

“There he is,” he murmured, softer now, turning his head to press a kiss to Shane’s temple. “I am so proud of you.”

Shane’s eyes slipped shut.

“It was scary, yes? But you did it anyway.”

Shane let out a breath, slow, his hands curling slightly into the fabric at Ilya’s sides.

“…was better than last time,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Ilya answered just as softly. “But that does not mean it was easy.”

Shane swallowed, Nodding faintly where he was tucked in close, letting himself stay there for a second longer, just breathing Ilya in, his familiar smell helping to lower his heart rate, while Ilya’s hand moved slowly up and down his back in a rhythm that was calming.

They stayed like that for another moment, until Ilya shifted slightly, just enough to look down at him.

“How can I help?” he asked.

Shane hesitated before answering.

“…it’s this jacket,” he said, voice quieter now. “There’s no shirt and I can feel everything. The seams. The label. It’s—” he shook his head slightly. “It’s too much.”

Ilya nodded straight away.

“Okay,” he said. “We fix it.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head before continuing. “We fix it, and then we go out there and take beautiful photos together, yes? Make everyone jealous because we are so in love and we are First Husbands of Hockey.” Shane could tell he was grinning now. “And then we go home,” he added softly, “and I will make it better again.”

Shane nodded against him, taking in a slow breath, letting it out as he focused on Ilya’s scent, the warmth of him, his hands on his back.

Ilya gave him one last squeeze before stepping back, just enough to look at him properly.

Then he turned and called for the assistant.

She came back in a moment later, glancing between them.

Shane dropped his gaze again, heat creeping up his neck, wanting to say something about the jacket, but not wanting to feel like he was complaining.

Instead, Ilya cleared his throat lightly.

“My husband looks very handsome,” he said easily, like they were just continuing a conversation. Then, almost as an afterthought, “but if he is not wearing shirt, how do you stop seams from rubbing? I hate that feeling.”

Shane glanced up at that. Just for a second. Ilya didn’t look at him, but there was a small flicker of something there, something to remind Shane that he was there for him.

The assistant stepped forward immediately, reaching to unbutton the jacket and inspect the seams.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought I had taped the seams down already, that’s on me.” She turned the fabric slightly, checking more of the inside. “I’m actually impressed you didn’t say anything,” she added, half-laughing. “Most guys complain the second they put it on.”

Shane stayed still, letting her work.

Across from him, Ilya grinned.

“That is my Shane,” he said, pride threaded through his voice. “He is very strong. Probably did not even notice.”

He flicked a quick wink at Shane over her shoulder.

Shane’s mouth twitched despite himself.

The fitting continued. Adjustments, different options, small changes here and there as they worked through the looks, but it settled into something more manageable now that the worst of it had been fixed, the edge taken off just enough that Shane could keep his heart from racing and his breathing steady.

By the time they were done, about half an hour later, they were both dressed in the first look, everything sitting right, nothing pulling or rubbing where it shouldn’t.

Ilya reached for his hand without hesitation and Shane let him take it, before they stepped out onto set together.

By the time they were back home at the end of the day, everything felt a little hazy, like it had all happened too fast for Shane to properly keep hold of any one moment, the hours blurring together into flashes of bright lights, different poses, hands on his shoulders guiding him this way and that, voices overlapping, the constant awareness of people moving around them, watching them, adjusting things.

The shoot had gone well. More than well.

The photographer had loved them, that much had been obvious, barely needing to direct them beyond a few basic prompts before letting them fall into each other naturally. Shane had followed Ilya’s lead where he needed to, letting himself be pulled in close, letting himself settle into the touches that had always come easily between them, fingers brushing, hands at waists and shoulders, foreheads knocking together as they laughed quietly between shots.

At some point near the end, they had been called over to look at a few of the photos.

Shane had stood there, shoulder to shoulder with Ilya, still in whatever outfit they had been in at the time, watching as the images flicked across the screen, one after another, and—

They were beautiful.

There was no other word for it.

He could see it, clear as anything, in the way they looked at each other, the softness there, the ease, the kind of thing that couldn’t be faked even if they had tried.

Beside him, Ilya had leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“See,” he murmured, voice warm with something fond. “Hayden always says I look at you with heart eyes.”

Shane had felt the heat rise up his neck immediately, ducking his head slightly, leaning into Ilya with ease.

“…how did no one know about us before,” he had whispered back, voice low enough that no one else could hear, “if we have always looked at each other like that?”

Ilya had just grinned, that same easy, knowing grin, and pressed another kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

And now they were home, back in their own space, their own clothes, the quiet settling around them in a way that felt completely different to the kind of quiet they had found in that dressing room earlier.

Ilya moved straight to the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing a ginger ale for Shane and a coke for himself before setting them down on the counter.

Shane leaned back against it, the cool edge pressing into his spine, his shoulders still tight, like his body hadn’t quite realised yet that it was allowed to let go.

He opened the can and instead of taking a sip, he proceeded to fiddle with the tab, flicking it between his fingers. He looked up, only to see Ilya watching him.

“What?” he asked, quieter than he meant to.

Ilya didn’t answer straight away, just stepped closer, lifting his hand to rest against Shane’s jaw, his thumb brushing slowly over his cheek as he studied him.

“You are still not okay, yes?” Ilya asked gently.

Shane exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor between them as he shook his head.

“…no.”

Ilya’s expression softened further at that, and he didn’t hesitate, just stepped in and pulled Shane against him again, one arm wrapping around his back, the other settling between his shoulders, holding him close.

“What is still not okay?” he asked quietly.

Shane sank into it, his forehead pressing into Ilya’s neck, breathing him in as he tried to sort through everything still sitting under his skin.

“I liked the photos,” he said after a moment, voice muffled slightly. “And I liked—” he swallowed. “Being with you. Out there. Holding your hand and being able to kiss you.” His grip tightened slightly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. “But…”

The word hung there, unfinished, as if he was unable to find the rest of the answer.

Ilya’s hands moved slowly up and down his back.

“Shane,” he said, just as quiet. “Is just me now. You can say whatever you feel.”

Shane let out a breath against his skin, his eyes closing briefly before he forced the words out.

“I just hate that I still react like that,” he admitted, the words coming out in a rush once he started. “It’s just a haircut, and I know that, and I think every time that it’ll be fine, that I’ll be fine, that it’ll be different, and then it isn’t, and today was fine and my hair looks fine, but I don't feel fine and I just feel like I ruin everything and—”

He cut himself off, swallowing hard.

“It’s embarrassing. I just feel so fucking embarrassed.”

Ilya’s arms tightened around him immediately.

“No,” he said, firm but not sharp. “Is not embarrassing.”

Shane shook his head slightly, but Ilya kept going.

“You are working hard,” he continued, his voice steady, certain. “For long time, this was very difficult for you. Now is only little time since it has been better. You are allowed to still feel it. You are allowed to not be fine.”

His hand pressed more firmly between Shane’s shoulders.

“And you did not ruin anything. No one knew. Only me.”

Shane huffed out a small, shaky breath.

“…I don’t want you to get sick of it,” he said quietly. “Of me. Of having to—” he hesitated. “Look after me all the time.”

Ilya pulled back at that, his hands shifting, one coming up to Shane’s jaw, the other settling on his shoulder, guiding him — gently but firmly — until Shane’s face was level with is own.

“Look at me, Shane Hollander.”

Shane finally lifted his eyes to meet Ilya’s gaze.

“Listen to me,” Ilya said. “I love you. I have loved you for very long time. Nothing changes that.”

His thumb brushed under Shane’s eye, catching the tear that had slipped free.

“I am not here to ‘look after you,’” he went on, softer now but no less certain. “I am here because I am your husband. I choose you, and everything that comes with you.”

Shane swallowed, still working hard to maintain eye contact, even if his vison was getting very blurry.

“I do not care about having to have fan on at night, or always being on same side of bed, or how you have special sheets with specific thread count, or the same laundry detergent all the time so that everything always smells correct,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging slightly. “I care about you.”

His grip tightened slightly on Shane’s shoulder.

“You are my Shane. And I am not going anywhere.”

Shane’s vision blurred fully then, tears slipping down his cheeks as he let out a shaky breath.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice breaking slightly.

Ilya smiled, soft and warm, leaning in to kiss him properly this time.

“I love you too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at him again, his thumb still brushing lightly over his cheek.

“Now,” he murmured, “what can I do to fix it?”

Shane hesitated, then shrugged slightly, unsure.

Ilya watched him for a second longer. “Is still the haircut?” he asked gently.

Shane nodded slowly, ducking his head again.

“It just… doesn’t feel right,” he admitted. “It looks fine, I just—I don’t feel like I usually do after.”

Ilya hummed in understanding, his hand lifting to tuck a strand of Shane’s hair back behind his ear, his fingers lingering there for a second.

“I can fix it,” he said.

Shane blinked, looking at him properly now, confusion cutting through everything else.

“…what?”

Ilya smiled, a little sheepish this time.

“Please do not be mad,” he said carefully, “but I have been keeping secret from you…”

Shane stilled.

It was small at first, just a shift, a step back, but it was enough to break the space between them, his stomach tightening before he could stop it, something nervous and uncertain twisting low in his chest as he looked at Ilya properly, trying to read him.

Ilya was grinning.

That same familiar, mischievous grin that usually meant he was about to say something ridiculous or teasing or just… very him.

But then it faltered. Not completely, not enough that anyone else would notice, but Shane saw it, the way it softened at the edges as Ilya took him in properly, the way his eyes flicked over his face, reading him just as easily.

“Oh,” Ilya said quietly, the grin slipping into something gentler as he stepped forward again without hesitation, closing the space Shane had just made.

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s lips, lingering just for a second.

“Do not worry, moya lyubov,” he murmured softly. “Is good secret.”

Shane huffed out a quiet breath, but it didn’t quite settle anything, his brows still drawn together slightly as he looked at him.

“…yeah?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, still not convinced.

Ilya’s smile came back properly at that, a little brighter now, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Yes,” he said, nodding once, like that was enough reassurance on its own. “You know how when we are home, I have PT appointment once a week for my shoulder?”

Shane blinked, thrown slightly by the shift, but nodded anyway.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “It’s on the fridge calendar.”

Ilya had insisted on that. Even after they’d moved, even after everything changed, the calendar had stayed.

Ilya nodded, like that was exactly the reaction he expected from Shane.

“Yes. So you always know where I am.” There was something in his tone, something just slightly off that made Shane’s stomach twist again. “Well,” Ilya continued, just a little more careful now, “is true I had appointment… but not with physical therapist.”

Shane stared at him.

“…what?”

“My shoulder is fine,” Ilya added quickly, like he could see the question coming before Shane even said it. “Was part of lie so you did not get suspicious.”

Shane’s frown deepened immediately, confusion cutting straight through the nerves now.

“…what the fuck were you doing then?” he asked, his voice a little sharper now, trying to keep up. “You’ve been going to these ‘PT’ appointments for over a year, Ilya.”

Ilya’s grin came back at that, softer this time, but still there, like he’d been waiting for this part.

“I was at appointment with Marco.”

Shane blinked.

“…Marco? Ilya, you cannot tell me you’ve been getting your haircut once a week for a year,” he said, a little incredulous now. “I think I would have noticed that.”

Ilya laughed, shaking his head.

“No, no,” he said, still smiling. “Not like that.”

He paused for just a second, almost as if he was pausing for dramatic effect.

“Marco has been teaching me.”

Shane frowned.

“Teaching you what?”

Ilya’s smile shifted again. “Teaching me how to cut your hair.”

Shane froze. Properly this time.

His eyes snapped up to Ilya’s face, searching, scanning, trying to find something — anything —  that would tell him this was a joke, or that Ilya was exaggerating, or—

But there was nothing.

Just that same open, steady honesty.

“…what?” Shane asked, quieter now, the word almost catching in his throat. “Why do you need to know how to cut hair?”

Ilya’s expression softened immediately.

“No, moya lyubov,” he said gently. “Not cut hair. Cut your hair.”

Shane still didn’t move; he knew his face was still full of confusion.

“I wanted to make it easier for you,” Ilya continued, his voice quieter now, more careful, like he was laying each word down slowly so Shane could follow.

“I know you are okay with Marco most of time,” he said, “but I wanted… more than that. I wanted you to not have to rely on him. Not have to wait, or feel bad asking him to come, or worry about appointment once you have made one.”

He shrugged slightly, like it was simple.

“This way, you could just come to me; say, ‘Ilya, I need haircut,’ and I could do it for you. Right then. No panicking because of anticipation.”

Shane still just stared at him.

He didn’t even realise he’d gone quiet until he saw the shift in Ilya’s face, the way the confidence slipped just a fraction, something more uncertain taking its place.

“I am sorry,” Ilya said quickly, the words coming a little faster now. “If is too much, you do not have to—you can keep going to Marco, I do not mind, whatever is easier for you, I just—”

Shane shook his head, cutting him off.

“…you learnt how to cut hair,” he said slowly, like he was still trying to catch up, “for me?”

Ilya stilled.

Then smiled again, softer this time.

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “I would do anything for you.”

Shane swallowed.

He still looked a little unsure, still trying to understand how this had been happening without him noticing, and Ilya seemed to pick up on that straight away.

“I have proof,” he added quickly. “Marco took video. In case you think I am lying.”

Shane made a small, questioning noise, as Ilya reached for his phone, unlocking it quickly before pulling something up and holding it out between them.

Shane stepped closer without thinking, his shoulder brushing Ilya’s as he looked down at the screen.

It was Marco’s salon.

Ilya stood behind one of the chairs, a mannequin head in front of him, comb in one hand, scissors in the other.

His hands were steady.

He pulled a section of hair down, combed through it once, then again, holding the strand between his fingers, before bringing the scissors up and trimming the ends, clean and precise.

Another section. Same thing.

Measured and careful.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

At one point, he glanced up at the camera and winked.

Shane huffed out a quiet breath at that, something loosening in his chest despite everything.

The next video was shorter.

The finished cut.

It looked—

Shane blinked.

It looked exactly like his.

The same shape. The same length. The same way it sat around the face.

Ilya lowered the phone again, slipping it back into his pocket.

“See,” he said lightly. “I did that. Was easy.”

Shane looked at him again, something shifting in his expression now, something softer, but still a little unsure.

“…did you only learn that one?” he asked.

Ilya’s grin came back immediately.

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “I learned all basics. I can do most things for you.”

He paused, then added with a small laugh—

“But not too short. I did not bother to learn that.”

Shane’s mouth twitched as he sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth.

“If you ever want short hair again,” Ilya continued, still smiling, “you need to give me at least twelve months’ notice so I can practice.”

And this time, Shane couldn’t help it.

He smiled.

“Shane,” Ilya said, something bright and almost disbelieving in his voice. “You are smiling. You are happy about this?”

Shane let out a small laugh, shaking his head a little, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling sitting in his chest, still caught somewhere between disbelief and something warmer, something that felt a little too big.

“You did that for me?” he asked again, quieter this time, like he needed to hear it one more time to make it real.

He stepped forward as he spoke, closing the space between them without thinking, his hands coming up to grip at Ilya’s shirt as he pulled him in close.

Ilya grinned down at him, easy and certain.

“Of course, moya lyubov,” he said. “Like I said, I would do anything for you.”

Shane’s breath caught slightly at that, and before he could stop himself, he ducked his head, pressing his face into Ilya’s neck, hiding there for a second as he tried to steady himself, the tight feeling in his chest shifting into something else, something that made his throat ache.

He sniffed quietly, trying to keep it together.

Ilya’s arms came around him straight away, holding him close again, one hand sliding up his back before moving slowly down.

“Oh, my Shane,” he murmured softly. “You are overwhelmed or upset?”

Shane shook his head against him, his voice muffled slightly where he was tucked in close.

“…overwhelmed.”

He felt Ilya’s quiet laugh against him, warm and soft, before his arms tightened just a little bit more.

“Is okay,” Ilya said. “Is okay to be overwhelmed.”

His hand kept moving, slow and familiar.

“How can I make you just… whelmed?”

Shane huffed out a small laugh. “Ilya,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak, though he still stayed close, “they mean the same thing.”

Ilya scoffed immediately.

“Stupid English language,” he muttered, shaking his head. “There is overwhelm and underwhelm, but why does whelmed also mean overwhelmed? Makes no sense. Russian is much easier. Stupid movie, asking if you can just be whelmed.”

Shane shook his head against him, a quiet laugh slipping out as Ilya kept going under his breath, still clearly annoyed about it.

He didn’t let him finish. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him.

It cut Ilya off mid-rant, his words disappearing instantly as he melted into it, his hands tightening where they held Shane, pulling him in closer without thinking.

Shane lingered there for a second, just enough to feel it properly, before pulling back, his forehead almost brushing Ilya’s as he looked at him.

There was still something soft in his expression, something a little overwhelmed, but steadier now.

“Ilya,” he said, voice quiet but deeper. “I need haircut.” The accent was there, clearly intentional, teasing.

Ilya blinked at him, then huffed.

“Shane,” he said, a little offended, though there was a smile tugging at his mouth, “this is not proper English. I sound sexy like this. You sound like little child. And you are not good at Russian accent. Is getting better, yes, but still not good.”

Shane bit his lip, trying — and failing — to hold back the smile that pulled at his mouth.

He leaned in again, just slightly, his voice softer this time, brushing close to Ilya’s lips.

“Ilya… would you please cut my hair?”

Ilya’s grin came back immediately.

“Of course, moya lyubov,” he said, nodding once. “Whatever you want.”

Shane nodded, the movement small, unsure, and then he just… stopped, anything else he’d wanted to say, now caught in his throat, his hands hovering for a second before dropping back to his sides, fingers twitching faintly like they wanted to do something but didn’t quite know what.

There was a second where nothing happened, until Ilya’s hand closed around his.

Shane wrapped his fingers around Ilya’s automatically, his grip tightening just a little as he was pulled forward, out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the bathroom.

Ilya pushed the door open and they stepped inside.

It looked the same. Same counter, same mirror, same soft lighting, same everything, and for a second that should have helped, it should have made it easier, but instead it just made Shane’s chest pull tighter, because he knew what this room was for, what happened here, what came next—

Ilya turned him, hands on his shoulders, pressing him down to sit on the closed toilet lid.

“Wait. One second.”

Shane nodded, quick, automatic.

The door stayed open when Ilya left.

He could hear him moving around, something opening, something being moved, footsteps, something dragging across the floor, the noise ringing in his ears, each bit sticking and layering over the last until it was all just… there, sitting too loud under his skin.

His hands tightened in his lap.

His shoulders tensed, his neck stiffened, his jaw tightened, his teeth clenched together as he swallowed, his chest not quite expanding fully, each breath catching halfway in and then moving out again too fast, like it couldn’t decide on a rhythm.

He stared at the floor.

There was a mark near the base of the cabinet, something faint, a scratch maybe. How did it get there? When did it happen? Was it from his shoe or the chair they brought in whenever Marco was here. Would it be hard to get off? He swiped at it with his socked foot, but it didn’t move. He must remember to tell the housekeeper about it next time he messaged her.

He sucked in another breath. His fingers curled tighter.

He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t have asked for another haircut. Was two in one day too much? It was only a couple of years ago that he couldn’t even handle one every six weeks, and now he’d agreed to two in one day.

The thoughts hit sharp and quick. A heavy weight landed in his stomach.

He shouldn’t have said it.

His stomach twisted, a tight, pulling knot that didn’t ease, it just sat there and wound tighter, his knee started to bounce, the rest of him too tense to move.

And Ilya—

That made it worse.

Because Ilya had done this for him.

He’d put in so much time and effort, all of it for him, and now—

Shane’s grip tightened harder, his nails pressing into his palm.

He couldn’t mess this up.

He couldn’t react wrong.

He couldn’t—

His breathing picked up again, shallow, still unable to take in a lungful, his fingers curling harder into his palms as the thoughts kept stacking, one on top of the other, faster and faster, no room to sort through them properly, just—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Shane flinched as his head snapped up before he could stop it.

Ilya was there, right in front of him. Shane hadn’t even heard him come back in.

The chair had been set up in front of the mirror, right where Marco usually had it, and Ilya was standing in front of him now, his expression softer, a little more concerned as he took him in.

Shane blinked up at him, trying to grab onto something, anything, to say, but the words didn’t wouldn’t come.

Ilya got there first.

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly. “You are nervous?”

Shane let out a breath instead of answering, his head dipping, a small nod following because that was easier, because that didn’t need words.

Ilya crouched down in front of him, hands coming to rest on his knees, warm and steady, squeezing gently.

“Moya lyubov,” he said softly. “Is okay to be nervous.”

Shane shook his head quickly because that wasn’t — not that — it wasn’t about that — but maybe it was? He didn’t know anymore. There thoughts were moving to quickly for him to form any sort of sense in his head.

"Shane, we do not have to do this if you do not want it," Ilya said, his thumb rubbing and and forth against Shane's knee.

“No,” he said, voice rough, his hand coming up to grip Ilya’s without thinking, holding on tight. “No, I just—you worked—”

The words got stuck, tripping over each other and not coming out right. He could feel himself getting frustrated. He blinked, trying to keep the tears that were threatening to form, at bay.

Ilya huffed out a quiet breath.

“Yes,” he said, “but that does not mean I have to do it. Is not okay to do something you do not want to do,” he continued, steady and certain. “Like I said, we do not have to do this if you do not want it.”

Shane blinked at him, his lashes wet and his grip tightening against Ilya’s hand.

“But you worked really hard on this Ilya,” Shane said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I do not want you to say yes just for me,” Ilya went on, his voice steady, firm in a way that cut through some of the noise in his head. “I want you to say yes because you want to, not because you think it will make me happy.”

Shane swallowed.

The thoughts didn’t stop. He’d made up his mind, but it still didn’t stop the noise.

He wanted it.

Even like this.

Even now.

His thumb pressed harder into the back of Ilya’s hand.

A small nod.

“I do,” he said, quieter now, the words still rough but clearer. “I want it.”

Ilya watched him for a second, then nodded once.

“Okay.”

He squeezed Shane’s knees, then stood, stepping back and giving him space.

Shane stayed where he was for a second, staring at the chair, his chest still tight, his hands not quite steady, his mind still moving too fast—

—but he pushed himself up anyway, before it could get worse, before he could think too much about it, crossing the small space and lowering himself into the chair in front of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him as his hands settled in his lap, fingers curling into his palms.

Shane sat there, his eyes fixed on the mirror as Ilya moved around behind him, crossing in and out of view, the quiet sounds of things being set down on the counter pulling his attention.

There was a soft clink, then another, and when Ilya stepped slightly to the side Shane caught sight of it properly — scissors, a comb, and clips lined up, and a spray bottle already filled.

Something in his chest pulled tight again.

Ilya had bought his own scissors. He’d bought his own scissors just to use on Shane’s hair. Ilya really had taken this seriously.

Shane swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly against his palms before his focus snapped back up when Ilya stepped in behind him again, close enough that he could feel the heat of him even before his hands rested on his shoulders.

“I do not have cape,” Ilya said, his voice light, almost apologetic. “Are you okay with just towel on your shoulders?”

Shane nodded, his throat too tight to trust with actual words.

Ilya reached for a towel and sat it around Shane’s shoulders, before clipping it closed at the front with a clothes peg.

For a second Shane just stared at it.

Then a small, unexpected sound left him, something soft and breathy that tipped into a quiet laugh before he could stop it.

Ilya grinned widely at him through the mirror, bright and pleased.

“Lucky I am smart,” he said, a hint of pride threading through his voice. “I can think of other things to use.”

Shane ducked his head slightly, shaking it as the smile lingered, small but real, something in his chest loosening just a fraction.

Ilya’s hands came up, sliding into his hair, fingers threading through the strands with a familiarity that Shane loved, the tightness in his shoulders eased, just a little, the tight pull in his chest loosening enough that his next breath came in slightly easier than before. He didn’t want to jinx it, but he felt himself start to relax.

The nervousness wasn’t gone. Not even close. But it changed.

Because it was Ilya.

Because his hands were warm and sure and careful, moving through Shane’s hair, like this was just another quiet moment between them and not something that Ilya was doing to help Shane feel better after a particularly hard day.

Shane’s eyes stayed on the mirror, watching as Ilya reached for the comb, working it gently through his hair, slow and deliberate, easing through the ends, then back up again.

There weren’t many tangles left, not after earlier, but Ilya didn’t rush it, didn’t skip over anything, just kept going until it all sat the way he needed it to.

Then the comb shifted in his hand, the end of it tracing a line along Shane’s scalp, parting sections cleanly, separating pieces before clipping them up and out of the way, one after the other, steady and methodical.

Shane watched it all happen, the movements familiar in a way that made something in his chest ache and relax at the same time.

It was the same as when Marco did it.

The same steps. The same order. The same way of doing it.

But it didn’t feel the same.

It felt easier.

Because every time Ilya’s fingers brushed against his skin, every time his hand steadied against his head for a second longer than it needed to, it calmed him in a way nothing else had all day, the noise in his head wasn’t gone but it was quieter, less overwhelming.

Shane let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping another fraction as he kept watching Ilya in the mirror, tracking every movement, every shift of his hands.

It felt like how it did with Marco.

But this time it was better.

Because it was Ilya.

Shane watched as Ilya finished sectioning his hair.

When he had finished, Ilya stepped back just a bit, his eyes moving over Shane’s head, looking over what he’d done, checking that each section was perfect.

Shane sat still, not wating to disrupt his process.

Once he looked satisfied with his work, Ilya moved back in behind him, close again, familiar, but before reaching for anything on the counter his hands came down to Shane’s shoulders, steady and warm, his fingers spreading slightly as he met Shane’s eyes in the mirror.

“You are still okay?” he asked quietly.

Shane nodded. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck under Ilya’s gaze. He had always hated how intimate a haircut felt, but with Ilya it was different. It was allowed to feel intimate; they were married.

Ilya smiled at Shane’s response, before he moved his thumbs, shifting slightly where they rested, brushing over the back of Shane’s neck in a slow, absent movement before he spoke again.

“I am just going to trim your ends, okay,” he said. “Very small amount. Just enough so you feel better after today.”

Shane nodded again, his eyes following as Ilya stepped away just enough to reach for the scissors.

There was a small pause, barely a second, and then Ilya was back, comb now also in hand as he moved into place behind him again.

Ilya lifted the first section easily, the strand sat between Ilya’s fingers as he held it steady.

Shane watched everything.

The way Ilya adjusted his grip. The way the scissors shifted in his hand, his thumb sliding into place as he turned them, opening the blades and bringing them in, precise and controlled.

Shane watched it all, his gaze fixed, following every movement as the scissors came up, the blades opening, then closing in a soft, easy motion.

Barely anything fell. Less than half an inch.

Shane felt the tension in his shoulders lessen.

Ilya moved on to the next section, repeating the same motion, comb, fingers, scissors, over and over again, steady and consistent, each movement flowing into the next without hesitation.

It had been months since Marco had last cut his hair, and even with the trim earlier, it was still longer than usual, hanging further passed his shoulders, feeling heavier and hotter around his neck, bothering him in a way that he tried to ignore, but was probably causing more of his frustrations than he liked to admit.

But this was okay. This felt okay.

Because it was Ilya.

Shane watched as Ilya’s brow furrowed slightly as he worked, his focus narrowing in a way Shane didn’t think he’d ever seen before, not like this, not this quiet concentration, and it made something in his chest pull tight in a completely different way from earlier.

Shane noticed that Ilya looked… comfortable.

Like he knew what he was doing. Like he’d been doing this for years instead of just practicing one haircut for months. His movements were sure, they weren’t hesitant or clumsy, not like someone trying something new for the first time.

And after a few more cuts, Shane saw that tension in Ilya’s face had eased just a little, the corners of his mouth lifting as he found his confidence. His hands moving easier, faster now, but still careful and precise.

Shane felt something in himself change.

It wasn’t the panic from before. This was something else. Something bigger, pressing up under his ribs until it almost hurt, his throat tightening in a way that had nothing to do with the haircut itself and everything to do with Ilya, with what he’d done, with how much of it had been for him.

His vision blurred and he sniffed before he could stop himself.

He felt the scissors still immediately.

Shane watched as Ilya looked up, catching Shane’s expression in the mirror, and he saw everything in him shift at once, the focus gone, replaced with something sharper, something more concerned as he set the scissors and comb down without hesitation and moved around in front of him. He crouched down, his hands coming up to Shane’s face, warm against his cheeks as he tilted his head slightly to look at him properly.

“Hey—” he said quickly, eyes scanning his face. “Moya lyubov—”

Shane met his eyes, the tears slipping over before he could stop them, but he was smiling.

“I’m okay,” he said, his voice uneven. “Just—overwhelmed.”

Ilya’s expression softened immediately, his thumb brushing under Shane’s eye, catching another tear as it fell.

“I am sorry,” he said, quietly. “This was to stop you feeling overwhelmed.”

Shane let out a small, wet laugh, shaking his head, his hands coming up to rest lightly against Ilya’s wrists, holding him there.

“No,” he said, his voice feeling steadier now, even if his eyes were still wet. “No, it’s—” he swallowed. “It’s because you did this. For me.”

Shane felt his heart swell as Ilya’s face lit up, the concern easing into something warmer, his mouth curving into a grin as he leaned in, closing the space between them to press a kiss to Shane’s lips.

“Ah,” he said lightly as he pulled back, his forehead brushing Shane’s for a second. “So this is good kind of overwhelmed.”

Shane nodded, a small breath leaving him.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, just as softly.

His thumb swiped once more under Shane’s eye, catching the last of the tears before they could fall, his touch gentle, and Shane felt the last of the tension slip from his shoulders.

Ilya then stood, reaching back for the scissors again as he moved into place behind him.

“Then I will finish,” he added with a wink. Shane couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly at his husband.

Shane eventually let his eyes fall shut, the last of the tension easing out of his shoulders as Ilya’s hands kept moving, steady and sure through his hair. The soft pull of the comb, the quiet snip of the scissors, over and over again, it was familiar now, predictable in a way that didn’t make his chest tighten, didn’t make his fingers curl in on themselves, it was just… there, something he could focus on without having to think about it too hard.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, letting his back rest properly against the chair this time, trusting the process, trusting Ilya behind him, and then he heard it, the quiet huff of a laugh, something soft and fond, like Ilya couldn’t quite believe his level of comfort either.

Shane’s mouth tipped up slightly.

His thoughts were still moving, still fast and overlapping  each other, but they weren’t sharp anymore, they weren’t causing him to spiral, they were just a low hum in the background as he sat there, aware that this — this right here — was something he’d never had before, something he’d never even thought was possible, sitting in a chair getting his hair cut with his eyes closed and his shoulders relaxed and not counting down the seconds until it was over, not bracing for the next touch, not trying to hold himself together through it.

Just… sitting.

Breathing.

Letting it happen.

Because it was Ilya, and they were at home, and everything smelled right and felt right and nothing was too much, nothing was pressing in on him from all sides, there was just Ilya’s hands and the quiet sound of the scissors and the soft movement of air when Ilya shifted behind him.

It was manageable.

More than that, maybe.

Shane’s fingers loosened in his lap.

Maybe — even — easy and enjoyable.

The scissors stopped.

There was a final pass of the comb through his hair, Ilya’s fingers following after, making sure everything sat where it should, and then—

“What do you think?” Ilya asked, his voice warm and a little pleased.

Shane opened his eyes.

For a second he just looked at himself—

It looked the same.

Exactly how it always did.

Like Marco had done it.

But—

This time his jaw wasn’t tight.

His brow wasn’t pulled together.

There wasn’t that lingering itch under his skin, that feeling of something still being off.

He looked… relaxed.

Shane tipped his head back slightly to look up at Ilya, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“Thank you.”

Ilya’s face lit up immediately, bright and open, and he leaned down without hesitation, kissing Shane properly.

“You are welcome,” he said, grinning.

He reached over, unclipping the towel, pulling it away from Shane’s shoulders—

—and immediately paused, looking down.

There were still little pieces of hair everywhere, clinging to Shane’s shirt, his neck, his arms.

Ilya hummed.

“…okay,” he said slowly. “Maybe towel is not best for this.”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh.

“I think maybe you need to get a cape,” he said.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed immediately, nodding like this was very serious. “Cape is next on list. Because this—” he gestured vaguely at Shane “—is problem. You will be very scratchy.”

He reached down, taking Shane’s hand, tugging him gently up out of the chair.

“Come,” he said. “Is okay, just means we need to shower.”

Shane stood, shaking his head to hide his grin before his gaze dropping briefly to the floor, to the scattered pieces of his hair around the base of the chair, something in his chest tightening for half a second—

Ilya followed his line of sight and laughed softly.

“Moya lyubov,” he said, squeezing his hand. “I will clean later. First we clean you.”

Shane let himself be pulled along as Ilya led him out of the bathroom and down the hall, up into their bedroom and through to the ensuite, the familiarity of it all settling over him again.

Clothes were shed without much thought, thrown into the hamper as Ilya reached in to turn the water on, adjusting it quickly before stepping back and guiding Shane under the spray.

The water was warm, washing away the last of the loose hair, and Shane let out a quiet breath, his eyes slipping shut again as Ilya’s hands came back, already reaching for the shampoo.

This was Shane’s favourite part.

Ilya’s fingers began working through his hair, slower now, careful, massaging gently at his scalp before rinsing it out, then moving to his face, quick and practiced, because they’d done this hundreds of times before.

By the time they stepped out, wrapped in towels, any remaining tightness had faded completely.

They now stood side by side at the vanity, Shane going through the familiar motions of his skincare routine.

He caught Ilya looking at him in the mirror.

“What?” he asked, his voice sounding amused as he watched Ilya watching him.

Ilya just grinned, stepping closer, reaching out to push Shane’s damp hair back from his forehead, his fingers lingering there for a second.

“I cannot believe I did this,” he said, something almost awed in his voice.

Shane huffed out a laugh, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“I can’t believe you did it either,” he said. “There’s going to be a line around the block once the team finds out about your new skill-set.”

Ilya’s head snapped towards him immediately.

“No,” he said, sharp and immediate, shaking his head. “No, Shane. Absolutely not.”

Shane blinked, caught off guard.

“I am not becoming barber for whole team,” Ilya continued, already doubling down, his expression serious in a way that made it harder for Shane to keep a straight face. “This is only for you. They will never know.”

Shane laughed out loud at his husbands insistence. Leaning forward to press a kiss to the crease in Ilya’s forehead.

“Okay,” he said, pulling back slightly, brushing their noses together. “Okay, Ilya.” He leaned in again, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Just between us.”

Chapter End Notes

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