Summary:

Ilya is minding his own business, fucking Shane Hollander into a hotel mattress, when out of nowhere, he is struck by a thought. Struck, a word he knows from hockey, and it feels like that, like a collision, maybe because it is so abrupt and maybe because it is so stupid.

I should cook something for him.

 

(Fighting the urge to show care towards the person you're sleeping with, or: Ilya Rozanov thinks about the tuna melt an extremely normal amount.)