Summary:

After a difficult car-shopping trip turns emotional, Shane accidentally reveals to Ilya that he’s pregnant. The dealership is bright in a way that feels artificial—too much glass, too much shine. Every surface gleams like it’s trying to convince you of something. New beginnings, maybe. Or expensive mistakes. Ilya has been in heaven since they walked in. He moves through the showroom like he belongs there, hands in his pockets, eyes lighting up every time a low-profile sports car comes into view. Red, silver, black—anything with sharp angles and the promise of speed pulls him in like gravity. “That one,” he says for the third time, pointing at a low, sleek sports car in a violent red. “No, wait—that one. Shane, look at the curves on it.” Shane trails behind, slower, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He stops beside a dark gray SUV, running his fingers along the door absentmindedly. It’s not flashy. It’s solid. Dependable. The kind of car you don’t have to think too hard about. “I’m looking,” Shane replies, but his eyes never leave the SUV. Ilya notices—and frowns. “You didn’t even turn around.” “I saw it earlier,” Shane says. “It’s… small.” “That’s the point.” Shane exhales through his nose. “It’s impractical.” Ilya laughs, bright and easy. “You keep saying that word like it’s an insult.” “It is,” Shane mutters. They’ve been doing this dance since they walked in. Ilya drifting toward cars that look like they were built to be admired. Shane gravitating toward vehicles with wide back seats, reinforced frames, high safety ratings. Every time Shane pauses, Ilya inevitably comments. “That thing’s massive.” “That looks like a dad car.” “God, Shane, it’s ugly.” At first, Shane just rolls his eyes. Then he stops responding altogether. The salesman eventually clocks the dynamic and wisely keeps his distance. Ilya, oblivious, finally settles on a silver sports coupe parked dead center under bright lights. He circles it slowly, reverently. “This,” he declares, “is art.” Shane stands several feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw is set, shoulders stiff. “It’s a death trap,” Shane says. Ilya waves a hand. “Statistically, that’s not true.” “Statistically,” Shane shoots back, “you drive like an idiot.” That earns him a grin. “You love it.” “I tolerate it.” “Same thing.” Shane doesn’t smile. When the salesman offers a test drive, Ilya doesn’t hesitate. Shane hesitates—but he gets into the passenger seat anyway. The interior is sleek and narrow. Everything feels close. Tight. The door shuts with a solid click that echoes louder than Shane expects. Ilya adjusts the seat, clearly pleased. “Listen to that engine,” he says as they pull out. “She’s perfect.” Shane stares straight ahead from the passenger seat. “She’s a death trap.” “Don’t be dramatic.” Ilya pulls out smoothly, confidence effortless. “You just don’t appreciate good design.” Shane exhales sharply. “I appreciate not dying.” They drive for a few minutes in tense silence. The car accelerates smoothly, hugging the road. Ilya is relaxed, one hand on the wheel, humming softly. “This is so much better than those ugly tanks you were eyeing,” Ilya says casually. “I mean, what were you planning to haul? Furniture?” Something in Shane snaps—not all at once, but enough. “Can you stop?” Shane’s voice rises suddenly, sharp and raw, cutting through the car like a slap. “For once, can you just stop acting like everything I want is stupid?” Ilya startles, foot easing off the gas. “What?” “Stop making fun of it,” Shane says, breath uneven. “Every time I l look at something I actually like, you tear it apart.” “Shane—”