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The cottage had never felt so quiet before.
When Shane pushed open the door, the hinges gave their familiar creak and the scent of pine and cold lake air drifted in with him, clinging to the wool of his coat, but the warmth that usually lived in the place—the music playing from Ilya’s phone somewhere, the low hum of the kettle, the sound of Russian muttering when he burned toast again—was gone, replaced with a silence so heavy it pressed against Shane’s chest like a weight.
He closed the door slowly behind him.
“Ilya?” he called, his voice echoing softly through the small living room.
No answer.
The fight replayed itself in his mind immediately, unwelcome and sharp as a splinter under skin. It had been stupid, really—something about Shane leaving for a practice skate when Ilya had wanted him to stay, or maybe about the groceries Ilya had forgotten again. The kind of argument couples had a thousand times without remembering the details afterward.
But Ilya had gone quiet near the end of it, in that particular way Shane had learned to recognize over the years.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just… distant.
Shane had known that look. He had known what it sometimes meant when Ilya’s thoughts began to turn inward on themselves like a storm folding in.
And still, he had left the cottage anyway, muttering something about needing to clear his head before he said something he’d regret.
The regret came now, sharp and immediate, tightening around his ribs.
“Ilya?” he called again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
A thin line of unease slid through him.
The living room was empty. The couch where Ilya liked to sprawl with his ridiculously long legs looked untouched. The blanket was folded neatly over the armrest, which in itself felt wrong, because Ilya never folded anything.
Shane’s boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as he crossed the room.
“Ilya, if you’re still mad, you can at least—”
He stopped.
The bathroom door was half open.
The light inside was on.
Something about the angle of it—the way the bright yellow light spilled across the hallway tiles—sent a sudden, electric jolt of dread through him.
“Ilya?”
He pushed the door open.
For a moment his brain refused to understand what he was seeing.
Ilya was sitting on the floor, his back against the bathtub, one knee drawn up awkwardly as if he had simply slid down there and stayed, his head tipped forward and his golden hair falling into his eyes.
And there was blood.
Too much blood.
It spread across the white tiles in a dark, glistening pool that made Shane’s stomach drop so violently he felt dizzy.
“Ilya—!”
Shane was across the room in an instant, dropping to his knees so hard the impact sent pain shooting up his legs.
“Ilya, hey, hey—look at me,” he said, his voice coming out thin and shaky in a way he barely recognized as his own.
Ilya’s head lifted slightly.
His face was pale—too pale—and damp with sweat, but his eyes focused slowly on Shane as if through a heavy fog.
“Shane?” he murmured.
The sound of his voice hit Shane like a punch to the chest.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Shane said quickly, already reaching for the towels hanging beside the sink with shaking hands. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
His fingers fumbled clumsily as he pressed the thick fabric against Ilya’s wrists, trying not to panic at the sight of so much red soaking into the cotton.
“Jesus, Ilya,” he whispered, the words breaking apart.
“I—” Ilya swallowed, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t think you would come back so fast.”
The sentence made something inside Shane twist painfully.
“Of course I came back,” he said, his voice rising despite his attempt to stay calm. “What the hell do you mean?”
Ilya’s gaze drifted somewhere past him.
“I thought… maybe you would stay gone for longer,” he said quietly.
Shane pressed the towels tighter, his hands slick and trembling.
“Don’t say that,” he said harshly. “Just—just stay with me, okay? I’m calling an ambulance.”
At that, Ilya’s eyes snapped back to him, suddenly sharp with alarm.
“No—”
“Yes,” Shane said immediately. “Yes, Ilya, we are absolutely calling an ambulance.”
“I’m fine,” Ilya insisted weakly, though his voice lacked conviction.
“You are bleeding all over our bathroom floor,” Shane said, his throat tight with fear. “You are not fine.”
Ilya tried to laugh.
The sound came out thin and uneven.
Shane grabbed his phone from his pocket with one hand and dialed, the emergency operator’s calm voice barely registering as he forced himself to speak clearly, to give their address, to explain what had happened without letting the panic completely take over.
All the while he kept pressure on Ilya’s wrists, his knees pressed into the cold tile, his entire world narrowed down to the sound of Ilya’s breathing.
“Ilya,” he said softly once the call ended, “hey, stay with me.”
“I’m here,” Ilya murmured.
His head leaned back against the tub, his eyes closing briefly before snapping open again when Shane said his name.
“Don’t do that,” Shane said immediately.
“Do what?”
“Close your eyes like that.”
Ilya gave a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You are very bossy right now,” he whispered.
Shane felt a sudden, fierce rush of anger—not at Ilya, but at the situation, at the blood on the tiles, at himself for leaving.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, his voice breaking. “Do you understand that?”
Ilya’s expression faltered.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were quiet, almost lost beneath the distant wail of approaching sirens.
Shane swallowed hard.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked hoarsely.
Ilya looked down at the floor between them.
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
The answer made something hot and painful surge behind Shane’s eyes.
“Bother me?” he repeated.
His voice cracked.
“You think this”—he gestured helplessly around the room—“is less of a bother than calling me?”
Ilya didn’t answer.
The sirens grew louder outside, echoing across the frozen lake.
Shane took a shaky breath.
“You’re not allowed to disappear on me like this,” he said quietly, his grip tightening around the towels.
Ilya’s eyes finally lifted to meet his again.
For the first time since Shane had walked in, the fog in them seemed to thin, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.
“I didn’t want to disappear,” Ilya said softly.
“Then what happened?”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant siren and the uneven rhythm of Ilya’s breathing.
“I was thinking,” Ilya said eventually.
“That’s never a good start.”
A faint, humorless smile flickered across Ilya’s mouth.
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
He hesitated.
“When you left… the cottage felt very quiet,” he continued slowly. “And my brain started telling me things.”
Shane knew exactly what that meant.
He had seen it before.
The spiral.
The way Ilya’s mind could twist ordinary thoughts into something dark and suffocating.
“What kind of things?” Shane asked gently.
“That you were tired of me,” Ilya said. “That you were realizing you deserve someone easier.”
Shane stared at him in disbelief.
“Ilya—”
“I know it’s stupid,” Ilya said quickly. “But when I’m in that place it feels… very real.”
The sirens stopped outside.
Footsteps approached the cottage door.
“I thought maybe if you came back and I wasn’t here anymore,” Ilya said quietly, “your life would be simpler.”
Shane felt the words land in his chest like a physical blow.
“Ilya,” he whispered.
The bathroom door burst open behind him as paramedics rushed in, but Shane barely noticed them as they knelt beside Ilya, taking over with quick, practiced movements.
His entire focus stayed locked on Ilya’s face.
“You listen to me,” Shane said fiercely, gripping his hand before the paramedics could separate them. “My life without you would not be simpler.”
Ilya’s eyes filled with tears.
“It would be empty.”
One tear slid down Ilya’s temple into his hair.
The paramedics began carefully lifting him onto a stretcher.
Shane stood shakily as they guided them toward the door.
“I’m coming with you,” he said immediately.
One of them nodded.
“Of course.”
As they stepped out into the cold night air, Ilya reached weakly for Shane’s sleeve.
“Shane?”
“Yeah?”
Ilya’s voice trembled.
“I’m really glad you came back.”
Shane squeezed his hand tightly, his own vision blurring.
“Me too,” he said hoarsely.
And he didn’t let go.
The hospital room was dim except for the soft, sterile glow of a single lamp mounted to the wall above the bed.
Machines hummed quietly in the background, their steady rhythm filling the long stretches of silence that had settled over the room like a thick blanket. Outside the narrow window, the winter night pressed darkly against the glass, the faint reflection of fluorescent hallway lights flickering whenever a nurse passed by.
Shane sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed.
He had not moved for nearly an hour.
One of his elbows rested on the mattress, his fingers loosely wrapped around Ilya’s hand, careful and gentle as if the contact itself might somehow hurt him. The dried tension in his shoulders still hadn’t eased, and every so often his thumb brushed lightly across Ilya’s knuckles as though confirming, over and over again, that he was still there.
Alive.
Breathing.
Safe.
The white hospital band around Ilya’s wrist caught the light each time Shane shifted slightly, a harsh reminder of how close everything had come to slipping completely out of his grasp.
Ilya had been asleep when they brought him in—sedated, the doctor had said, so his body could rest after the shock—but now the slow flutter of his eyelids broke through the quiet.
Shane noticed instantly.
He leaned forward so quickly the chair creaked.
“Ilya?” he said softly.
Ilya’s brow furrowed faintly, as though the act of waking required real effort. His lashes lifted halfway, unfocused at first, his gaze drifting across the unfamiliar ceiling before eventually settling on the shape beside him.
It took a moment for recognition to bloom in his eyes.
“Shane?”
His voice was rough and weak, barely louder than the machines beside him.
Shane exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Hey,” he murmured, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re awake.”
Ilya blinked slowly, his gaze shifting around the room with mild confusion before returning to Shane’s face.
“Hospital,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.”
There was a pause.
Then Ilya swallowed.
“I remember ambulance,” he said.
Shane nodded.
“You scared about ten years off my life.”
Ilya’s lips curved faintly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was soft and automatic, like a reflex.
Shane felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
“Ilya…”
He stopped himself.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke. The weight of everything that had happened hung between them, thick and heavy, like storm clouds that hadn’t quite broken yet.
Ilya looked down slightly, his gaze drifting to their joined hands.
His voice came out quieter this time.
“You stayed.”
The words were simple, but they carried a fragile disbelief beneath them.
Shane frowned.
“Of course I stayed.”
Ilya’s eyes flickered upward again, searching his face as if trying to measure whether that answer was genuine or simply something comforting Shane felt obligated to say.
“You could have gone home,” he said slowly. “You had practice tomorrow.”
Shane stared at him.
For a moment he couldn’t even form a response.
“Ilya,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion, “you almost—”
He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
The silence that followed stretched long and aching.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane said quietly.
Ilya studied him carefully.
“You’re not angry?” he asked.
That question hit Shane harder than anything else had.
“Angry?” he repeated.
Ilya nodded slightly.
“I ruined everything tonight.”
Something inside Shane cracked open at those words.
He leaned forward in the chair, pressing a hand over his face for a moment before dropping it again, his eyes shining with exhaustion and something far deeper.
“Ilya,” he said slowly, “you didn’t ruin anything.”
Ilya looked unconvinced.
Shane let out a shaky breath.
“You know what ruined my night?” he continued. “Walking into that bathroom and thinking I was too late.”
Ilya’s expression faltered.
Shane’s voice trembled now despite his attempt to keep it steady.
“I thought I’d lost you.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Ilya’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I know.”
Shane’s thumb moved gently against the back of Ilya’s hand again.
“I just…” Ilya’s voice broke slightly. “My brain was telling me that you’d be better off without me.”
The statement was spoken with the quiet certainty of someone who had spent hours convincing himself of it.
Shane felt tears sting unexpectedly behind his eyes.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said hoarsely.
Ilya gave a faint, sad smile.
“Yes, you have said that about many of my ideas.”
“This one wins.”
Ilya looked down again.
“You deserve someone easier,” he murmured.
The words were barely audible.
Shane’s reaction was immediate.
“No.”
The firmness in his voice made Ilya look up.
“I don’t want easier,” Shane said.
His grip tightened around Ilya’s hand.
“I want you.”
Ilya’s eyes flickered with emotion.
“Even when I’m… like this?”
“Especially when you’re like this.”
Ilya blinked quickly, moisture gathering along his lashes.
“You say that now,” he whispered. “But one day you’ll get tired.”
Shane leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched.
“Ilya,” he said gently, “do you remember when we first met?”
Ilya sniffed faintly.
“You told me i can't smoke there.”
“You couldn't.”
A ghost of a smile flickered between them.
“We spent years trying to destroy each other on the ice,” Shane continued softly. “And somehow that turned into… this.”
He gestured vaguely between them.
“I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re easy,” he said.
Ilya’s breath hitched.
“I fell in love with you because you’re you.”
A tear slipped down Ilya’s cheek.
“You’re stubborn and dramatic and you steal all the blankets,” Shane continued, his voice thick with emotion. “And you make the worst pancakes I’ve ever tasted in my life.”
“That is a lie,” Ilya protested weakly.
“They’re terrible.”
“You eat them.”
“Because you made them.”
Ilya’s shoulders trembled slightly.
Shane’s voice softened.
“You’re also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
That did it.
The tears spilled freely down Ilya’s face now, silent and helpless.
“I thought I broke everything tonight,” he whispered.
Shane shook his head.
“You didn’t break us.”
Ilya squeezed his hand weakly.
“I was so scared you would leave.”
Shane felt his own tears finally slide free.
“I’m not leaving,” he said.
The certainty in his voice filled the room.
“Not tomorrow. Not next year. Not when things get hard.”
He brushed his thumb gently across Ilya’s damp cheek.
“You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
Ilya let out a shaky, broken laugh.
“That sounds like threat.”
“It is.”
For a moment they simply looked at each other, the quiet hum of the machines surrounding them.
Then Ilya spoke again, his voice fragile.
“I love you.”
The words trembled slightly as they left him.
Shane’s chest tightened.
“I love you too,” he said immediately.
Ilya squeezed his hand harder.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You did.”
“I’ll try… to talk next time,” Ilya said quietly.
Shane nodded.
“Good.”
“And you,” Ilya added weakly, “should not leave cottage when I am spiraling.”
Shane huffed softly.
“Deal.”
A small silence settled over them again, gentler this time.
Ilya’s eyelids were beginning to droop, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.
“Shane?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for coming back.”
Shane leaned forward, pressing a careful kiss to his forehead.
“There was never a universe where I didn’t,” he murmured.
Ilya’s breathing slowly evened out as sleep pulled him under again, his fingers still loosely curled around Shane’s hand.
And Shane stayed exactly where he was, holding on.
The cottage felt different when they came back.
It looked the same—same creaking wooden floors, same kitchen with the crooked cabinet door that never quite closed properly, same couch with the faded green blanket Ilya had insisted on buying even though Shane had argued it clashed horribly with everything else—but the air inside the house carried a quiet tension now, something invisible and fragile that seemed to hover between the walls.
Shane noticed it immediately.
Or maybe it wasn’t the house that had changed.
Maybe it was him.
The first night back, he barely slept.
Every small sound woke him—the soft rustle of sheets when Ilya shifted beside him, the wind brushing against the lake outside, the old radiator clicking in the corner. Each time his eyes opened, his first instinct was the same: to turn his head quickly and check that Ilya was still there.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
Ilya lay curled on his side, his back pressed lightly against Shane’s chest, his breathing slow and even in sleep.
Shane watched him for a long time.
The moonlight filtering through the curtains painted soft silver lines across Ilya’s face, catching in the blonde mess of his hair, and for a moment the sight of him looked so peaceful that it almost felt unreal.
Too peaceful.
Shane reached out without really thinking, resting his hand gently on Ilya’s shoulder.
Just to feel the warmth of him.
Just to confirm he was real.
Ilya stirred slightly under the touch but didn’t wake.
Shane exhaled slowly.
He didn’t remove his hand for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Ilya noticed.
He was standing at the kitchen counter attempting to make coffee—a process that involved far too much staring at the machine like it had personally offended him—when he felt Shane’s presence behind him again.
Not unusual.
Except Shane had already followed him into three different rooms that morning.
Ilya glanced over his shoulder.
“You know,” he said carefully, “I am not going to disappear if you stop watching me for five minutes.”
Shane leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“I’m not watching you.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“You have followed me to the bathroom, the kitchen, and the porch.”
“I like those places.”
“Ah.”
Ilya turned back to the coffee machine.
There was a pause.
Then he said quietly, “Shane.”
Shane didn’t respond.
Ilya sighed softly and turned around fully this time.
The look on Shane’s face made his chest tighten.
Shane wasn’t hovering because he was annoyed or controlling or even consciously overprotective.
He was hovering because he looked scared.
Not the loud, obvious kind of fear.
The quiet kind.
The kind that sits behind someone’s eyes and refuses to leave.
“You don’t have to guard me,” Ilya said gently.
“I’m not guarding you.”
“You absolutely are.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck, looking briefly at the floor.
“I just…” he started, then stopped.
The words seemed to get stuck somewhere in his throat.
Ilya stepped closer.
“You what?”
Shane’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay.”
Shane’s eyes lifted to his.
There was something raw in them.
“You said that before.”
The words landed softly but heavily between them.
Ilya didn’t answer immediately.
Instead he looked down at his own hands for a moment, at the faint bandages still wrapped around his wrists.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“That was different.”
Shane let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh, though there was no humor in it.
“From where I’m standing,” he said, “it didn’t feel very different.”
Ilya’s chest tightened again.
He took another step forward until they were barely a foot apart.
“Shane.”
Shane looked at him again, and this time the fear in his expression was impossible to miss.
“I keep thinking,” Shane admitted quietly, “what if I go out to get groceries or something and I come back and—”
He stopped abruptly.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
Ilya felt a wave of guilt roll through him so strongly it almost made him dizzy.
“You think I will do it again,” he said softly.
Shane’s reaction was immediate.
“No.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Shane pressed his lips together.
“I don’t think you want to,” he said carefully. “But I know how your brain works sometimes.”
Ilya didn’t deny that.
The silence stretched between them.
Then Shane said the thing that had clearly been sitting heavy in his chest since the hospital.
“I can’t go through that again.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
“Ilya, when I walked into that bathroom…” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were gone.”
Ilya felt his own throat tighten.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Shane without warning.
Shane froze for half a second before his arms came up around Ilya’s back, holding him tightly, almost desperately.
“I’m still here,” Ilya murmured against his shoulder.
Shane’s grip tightened.
“I know.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him.
“You cannot watch me every second,” he said gently.
Shane hesitated.
“I could try.”
That almost made Ilya smile.
“Shane.”
“What?”
“You have hockey practice tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“You cannot bring me to the rink and make me sit on the bench like emotional support animal.”
Shane looked like he was genuinely considering it.
Ilya sighed.
“Listen to me.”
Shane’s gaze returned to his face.
“I am not pretending everything is magically fixed,” Ilya continued quietly. “But I am trying.”
Shane studied him carefully.
“You promise?”
Ilya nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
“And if things get bad again?”
Ilya took a breath.
“I will tell you.”
Shane searched his face as if trying to determine whether those words were something solid he could trust.
“You swear?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Shane hesitated a moment longer before finally nodding.
But even then, his arms didn’t loosen much.
Ilya noticed.
He rested his forehead lightly against Shane’s.
“You are going to suffocate me if you keep hugging this tight,” he murmured.
“Good.”
“That is not romantic.”
“It’s effective.”
Ilya let out a soft huff of laughter.
The sound seemed to ease something in Shane’s shoulders.
For a moment they just stood there in the quiet kitchen, holding each other.
Finally, Ilya pulled back slightly.
“You should sit,” he said. “I will finish making coffee.”
Shane didn’t move.
“Ilya.”
“What?”
“If the coffee machine explodes, I want to be close enough to save you.”
Ilya stared at him.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Probably.”
After a few seconds, Shane reluctantly stepped back and sat at the kitchen table.
But his eyes never left Ilya.
And when Ilya glanced over his shoulder while pouring the coffee, he found Shane watching him with the same quiet vigilance as before.
Not controlling.
Not suspicious.
Just scared.
Ilya carried the two mugs over and set one down in front of him.
“You know,” he said softly, “I am not planning to go anywhere.”
Shane wrapped his hands around the mug but didn’t look away from him.
“Good,” he said.
Ilya reached across the table and took his hand.
“You’re stuck with me.”
A small smile finally appeared on Shane’s face.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“That’s the plan.”