Summary:

“It’s silly,” Shane murmurs, as the heat from the water slowly starts to turn lukewarm. Ilya is still warm against him, and that’s really all he needs. “How much I'm looking forward to waking up next to you.” He presses his mouth against the hollow of Ilya's neck, nuzzling in closer. “And we get tomorrow.” “Da,” Ilya whispers. “We get tomorrow.” What a world to live in, Shane thinks, his grip turning greedy, his fingers squeezing. To have tomorrow. To know that he's going to wake up in Ilya's arms. They'll have breakfast together. It's the middle of the season and they live hundreds of kilometers apart, and somehow, some way, they're making this work. What a fucking miracle. OR: Shane & Ilya get a moment to breathe in the final Boston year.