Chapter Text
September
“Okay, mom. Sounds good. Love you too. Bye.”
By the time Shane hangs up, his mother’s voice is still ringing in his ears.
“You can’t keep leaving right after practice.”
"Everyone else is putting in extra hours.”
“You have to set a good example. You’re the first underclassmen they’ve ever elected to be captain.”
The conversation had gone exactly the way it always did– Yuna repeating herself until her words all started to sound the same, and Shane sitting there with the phone pressed against his ear, too exhausted to argue. Too exhausted to tell her that he really was trying, but with the amount of schoolwork, practice, and pressure he’s been under, he was tired. But, in her eyes, trying wasn’t enough.
So, he does what he always does when the pressure starts building in his chest and he can feel himself suffocating beneath it. He goes to the lighthouse.
It isn’t much– an abandoned, weathered tower overlooking the ocean, tucked away from the noise and lights of the city– but it’s his favorite place. The one place that feels completely his, where hockey can’t follow him.
Tonight, like other nights, the sea is black and endless. Stars shimmer overhead, reflected in the inky water below so perfectly that the horizon seems to disappear. Waves crash against the jagged boulders beneath the cliffs, the sound steady and familiar. And for the first time all evening, Shane can breathe. His breath slows, matching the sounds beneath him. The tight feeling in his chest slowly dissipates.
He leans against the railing of the balcony that surrounds the lighthouse and lets the cold, autumn wind sting his cheeks.
That’s when Shane sees him.
At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the light, just another shadow, but shadows don’t stand perfectly still. Someone is standing at the very end of the pier. A man.
At least, Shane assumes it’s a man. He can’t make out any details in the darkness– just the dark silhouette of a broad-shouldered, tall figure, with hands buried in his pockets, staring out at the water. Not moving. Not doing anything, really. Just watching the waves crash against the rocks.
Shane’s stomach twists. How long has he been there?
Something about the sight unsettles him. The end of the pier isn’t exactly a place people go to sightsee in the middle of the night. And with the way he’s standing– still, alone, dangerously close to the edge…
A horrible thought enters Shane’s mind.
Oh God. Is he going to jump?
He straightens immediately, heart pounding. Should he say something? Call out? Let the man know that he isn’t alone in whatever is happening?
But, as Shane opens his mouth, the man turns. And, even from this distance, he can feel it. The stranger has seen him. And suddenly, the figure begins walking slowly– deliberately– towards the lighthouse. Towards Shane.
His heart leaps into his throat. Did he see me? Is he coming up here? Why is he coming here? Oh my god. Is he going to kill me?
The thought is ridiculous. Probably. But it doesn’t stop the rush of adrenaline that shoots through Shane’s veins. He doesn’t wait to find out if it’s a rational thought, practically stumbling down the stairs and to the parking lot. As he fumbles with his keys, he throws one last glance over his shoulder.
The man is still walking. Steady. Unhurried. And somehow, in Shane’s mind, that’s worse than if he was running full-speed.
Shane climbs into his car, peeling out of the lot faster than he should. His pulse races the entire drive back to the dorm. Only when he slams the door behind him and collapses against it does he finally let himself breathe. He doesn’t know who that was or what he wanted.
But, long after Shane crawls into bed, long after he’s turned off the lights and shut his eyes— he finds himself unable to stop thinking about that lonely figure at the end of the pier, staring into the dark ocean as though it held all the answers in the world.
========
6 months later
March arrives before Shane realizes it.
Winter melts into something softer, though Boston– the clingy bitch that she is– refuses to let go of the cold completely. Patches of dirty snow cling stubbornly to the edges of the campus sidewalks, and the wind off the ocean is sharp enough to make Shane’s eyes water.
Life, meanwhile, carries on– practice, classes, games, phone calls from his childhood friend in Ottawa, Rachel, reminding him that he is, in fact, allowed to have fun.
From the outside, everything is perfect.
Shane Hollander, BU’s star forward. The campus “golden boy”. The guy everyone likes, who everyone assumes has his entire life figured out.
But, the truth is, Shane feels like he’s drowning. Not dramatically, just slowly. Quietly. Like he’s spending every waking second chasing something he stopped wanting years ago– chasing a dream that isn’t his. His parents call every night, asking about classes and hockey, but never once how he is.
And, for some reason, Shane still thinks about the stranger at the lighthouse. Not often, but enough to catch himself wondering. Enough that he occasionally dreams about the dark figure at the end of the pier. Sometimes, he even wonders if he imagined that night entirely. By March, he’s almost convinced he did.
Until one Friday night, after an ugly loss and an even uglier meeting with his coach, Shane finds himself driving without thinking. The route is almost muscle memory and, twenty minutes later, he’s pulling into the gravel lot beneath the lighthouse. As he steps into the bitter night, he hears the waves crash against the rocks, soothing his inner thoughts.
But then, as he steps closer to the entrance of the tower, Shane nearly stops breathing.
Because he’s there. Standing at the end of the pier, exactly where he was six months ago. Same posture, same hands in his pockets, same impossible stillness.
“...No way,” Shane mutters under his breath.
The figure doesn’t move, per usual. Shane’s better judgement tells him to leave. Again. But this time, something stronger keeps him rooted in place. Curiosity? Loneliness? Maybe just plain stupidity. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts heading up to the dark lantern room.
The stranger remains at the edge of the pier, watching the sea batter the boulders below. Shane leans against the same railing that he did six months ago and pretends he isn’t stealing glances to the man below him.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.
Eventually, the stranger turns and starts walking back.
Shane’s pulse quickens. Please don’t murder me.
As he gets closer, Shane can finally make him out. Tall– ridiculously tall, actually. Light, curly hair, windswept from the ocean breeze. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes so blue that Shane can see them with just the moonlight. The guy is unfairly attractive, which honestly, makes him seem even more suspicious.
Once the man reaches the top of the lighthouse stairs, he seems a bit startled to see Shane standing there, staring at him.
“You know, I thought you were going to jump,” Shane blurts out before he can lose his nerve.
The man just blinks at him. “What?”
“Six months ago,” Shane begins to ramble. “You were standing out there and, well, you looked very…. uh… jump-adjacent?”
The stranger stares at him. He moves next to Shane, also leaning against the railing. He looks back out at the black water. Then, slowly, turns back to Shane.
“Into that? You are insane? Is freezing.”
Shane lets out an involuntary laugh, uncomfortable with his previous assumptions. “Sorry, you just looked…”
“Like I wished to throw myself into the Atlantic?”
“Well, when you put it like that, I sound crazy.”
“You sounded crazy before.”
The accent, in all honesty, catches Shane off-guard. Russian, maybe. Definitely not Boston. Definitely not North American.
“Okay, in my defense, standing alone at the end of a pier in the middle of the night is a bit… serial-killer-y.”
The man considers this. “Fair.”
Shane blinks. “That’s it? No argument?”
“You are annoying already. I do not need to argue with you also.”
Shane laughs. Actually, genuinely laughs. Something flickers across the other man’s face– surprise. As if he hadn’t expected that… as if he hadn’t expected him.
“So,” Shane says. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Serial Killer Pier Guy?”
The stranger sighs dramatically. “Ilya.”
“Shane.”
“I know.”
Shane freezes. “You know?”
“You are not difficult to know, hockey boy.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“You expected something worse?”
“I don’t know, maybe that you stalk me.”
“I am offended,” the man brings a dramatic hand to his jacket-covered chest.
“By what?”
“That you think I spend my free time stalking hockey players.”
Shane just grins. “You’ve got to admit, saying ‘I know who you are’ at midnight is kind of creepy.”
Ilya shrugs. “Says the one who thought I was jumping into the ocean.”
“Fair.” Shane chuckles.
For a while, neither says a word. The wind whistles around the lighthouse. The waves crash against the rocks. And strangely… it’s comfortable. Not awkward or tense, just quiet. Ilya moves to sit on the bench a few feet away. After a moment, Shane joins him. Not too close, but not far away either. They watch the sea in silence.
“So, if you weren’t planning on jumping… what were you doing?” Shane asks quietly after a minute or two.
Ilya’s eyes stay fixated on the horizon. “Thinking.”
“About what?”
“Things.”
Shane smiles. “Very specific.”
“I know.”
Another silence. Then–
“What about you?” Ilya’s voice is low, causing Shane to look over in surprise.
“What about me?”
“Yes. Why are you here?”
Nobody asks Shane that. Not really. They ask about hockey, about classes, about game schedules. Not, why are you here?
Shane just looks out at the water. “It’s quiet. Nobody bothers me. And I can think.”
A small smile touches Ilya’s lips. He hums. “So, we are here for same reason.”
Shane glances over and, for the first time since meeting, Ilya isn’t looking at the ocean– he’s looking right at Shane.
========
The next time Shane sees Ilya, it’s entirely by accident. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
He’s halfway through a miserable statistics assignment when he catches himself checking the time.
10:43 pm. Too late for coffee, too early for sleep (not that he feels he could fall asleep right now, anyways).
His thoughts are on full volume in his mind and, before he knows it, he’s grabbing his keys. Because maybe the sound of the waves will help. Because maybe he just needs time with his thoughts. Because maybe… well… no specific reason.
The parking lot is nearly empty when he arrives, save for one small sedan parked in a dark corner.
No fucking way.
Sure enough, when Shane reaches the top of the lighthouse, there he is. Standing by the railing this time, not at the end of the pier. Progress, Shane thinks, smiling stupidly despite himself.
“No attempted drowning tonight?” He teases.
Ilya doesn’t even need to turn around to know who it is. “Good evening to you, too.”
Grinning, Shane replies. “See? You’re learning manners.”
“You are mistaken. I simply tolerate you.”
Shane hums. “Mm. Sure.”
He joins Ilya at the railing, immediately noticing how much calmer the ocean is tonight. For a while, neither boy speaks. That’s the strange thing– Shane never shuts up around other people, always talking, smiling, filling silence.
But around Ilya, the quiet doesn’t feel awkward. It feels easy.
“Did you win?” The accented voice breaks the silence.
Shane glances over. “The game?”
“You are hockey boy. I assume there is always game.”
“We lost.”
Ilya just hums lowly in response before the silence covers the two again. Then, unexpectedly–
“Why do you play?” Ilya questions.
Shane blinks. “What?”
“Hockey.”
“Because I love it.”
The answer comes out automatically, a bit too automatic. And– of course– Ilya notices. Shane can tell by the slight tilt of Ilya’s head as he turns to face him.
“You rehearsed that answer.”
“No, I didn’t”
“Hm.”
“What does that even mean?” Shane looks at Ilya, trying to sound defensive over a sport he couldn’t care less about.
“It means,” Ilya says simply, “you sound like someone who is repeating what he is supposed to say.”
Shane opens his mouth, then closes it. “You’re annoying.”
“So I have been told.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
Shane looks out at the water. He’s memorized the way the stars shine off the ocean’s surface. It feels familiar. It feels safe.
“I used to love it,” he admits quietly, looking down at his hands as they burrow their way into his sleeves.
Ilya says nothing; he doesn’t push for more information. He doesn’t tell Shane to appreciate being good at what he does. No, Ilya just lets Shane be. For some reason, that makes Shane keep talking.
“I don’t know. I was five when I started and everyone always expected me to play because of my dad. Then I got good at it, and suddenly it became this whole thing,” He shrugs. “Now, everybody acts like it’s my dream.”
“And it isn't?” Ilya asks.
Shane swallows, the truth feeling like fire in his throat. His reply is barely above a whisper. “I don’t know anymore.”
Ilya nods. Just nods as though Shane has said something completely ordinary, like he hasn’t just confessed something that he’s never admitted to anyone.
“That sounds exhausting.”
No lecture, no disappointment. Just understanding.
Shane feels his eyes sting– not because he’s sad or upset but because no one– no one– has ever responded to him that way before.
Beside him, Ilya keeps staring at the sea. “I wanted to be astronaut when I was six,” he says.
“You wanted to go to space?”
“Da.”
“What happened?”
Ilya shrugs, catching Shane’s eyes with his own. “I discovered physics.”
Shane bursts out laughing. For the first time in a very long time, Ilya smiles before he can stop himself, and Shane catches it. All of it.
He catches the entire smile– the crookedness of it, the smallness of it, the fucking beauty of it. However, he also catches the way Ilya seems to realize what he’s doing. He looks away toward the ocean, toward anything but Shane, as though he’d accidentally let something slip.
Neither of them says anything, just listening to the waves gently run up onto the rocks. Somehow, Shane finds himself smiling too. Not because of the joke or even the fact that Ilya had smiled, but because, for the first time in a while, he doesn't feel trapped. He doesn’t feel like he needs to be somewhere else.
He’s just… here.
Standing beside a strange Russian man he barely knows, listening to the ocean. And, right now, that’s enough.
========
By noon the following day, BU is exactly the way Ilya likes it– busy enough that no one notices him.
Students crowd the campus grounds with coffees in hand, backpacks slung over one shoulder, rushing from class to class as if the world will end if they’re thirty seconds late. Someone is playing terrible music outside the Warren Towers dorm building. A tour group blocks the sidewalk. Life goes on.
Ilya hates all of them. Well, not really, just professionally.
He sits in the back corner of his sociology lecture, hood pulled over his head, earbuds in despite no music being played. It simply keeps people away… mostly.
He hasn’t heard a word that the professor has said in the last twenty minutes. Instead, his mind keeps wandering to places it shouldn’t.
The lighthouse, the ocean, the sound of Shane’s laughter.
Ilya frowns at his notebook, shaking his head to himself. You are thinking about hockey boy. Unacceptable.
He doesn’t think about people. People complicate things. They ask questions. They expect things. And Ilya has become an expert in making sure expectations never even have a chance to form against him. He keeps everyone at an arm’s length– friends and relationships are both temporary… it’s just easier that way. It’s safer.
Ilya writes something down from the professor’s board, then immediately realizes it’s wrong.
Wonderful. Now he’s stupid and distracted.
His phone buzzes and he glances at it, expecting it to be from one of the many dating app girls he never responds to. Instead, it’s his sister.
Anya: You alive?
Ilya stares at the message before typing back.
Ilya: Unfortunately.
Three dots appear immediately.
Anya: Drama queen. Did you sleep?
Ilya: No.
Anya: Eat?
Ilya: No.
Anya: Ilya.
Ilya: Anya.
Anya: I’m serious.
Ilya: As am I.
A minute passes. Then—
Anya: I miss Mama today.
The breath catches in Ilya’s throat the way it always does, and still does years later. He stares at the words for so long, the screen begins to dim. Finally, his fingers move slowly over the keyboard and press send.
Ilya: Me too.
Nothing else. Because what else is there to say? If he lets himself think about it too long– about hospital rooms, the phone call, watching his baby sister cry, how unfair it all was— he won’t make it through the rest of the day.
The professor dismissing the class wakes Ilya up from whatever thoughts he’s stuck in. Grabbing his bag, he makes his way toward the door, then is stopped by Cliff, one of his good– and only– friends.
“You look awful,” the other man says.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You say the sweetest things.”
Cliff grins, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Late night?”
“Something like that.”
“Who was he?”
Ilya stops in his tracks. “What?”
“The guy you've been thinking about all lecture,” Then, when Ilya begins to protest, Cliff adds, “dude, you wrote ‘Chapter 8 discussion questions’ four times.”
Ilya flips into his notebook and, sure enough–
Chapter 8 discussion questions
Chapter 8 discussion questions
Chapter 8 discussion questions
Chapter 8 discussion questions
Cliff just bursts out laughing, the two boys finally stepping out into the hallway.
“Oh, dude, you’re gone.”
“There is no one.” Ilya retorts.
“Suuuuure, Rozy. Whatever you say, lover boy.” Cliff walks away, slinging his arm around his current girlfriend, Amy.
Ilya remains where he is, though. Alone in the middle of the hallway, staring at the notebook paper like it did something terrible. But, before he can stop the thought–
Will he be there tonight?
The thought irritates the hell out of him almost immediately. Ilya knows he has homework… well, maybe not that, but he has better things to do! He is certainly not planning his evening around some annoyingly handsome hockey player with a ridiculously charming laugh. That would be completely absurd.
Still, as he walks across campus to his next class, Ilya notices the sky is clear.
The stars should be nice tonight. He thinks.
Which, of course, means absolutely nothing.
========
The afternoon sun hangs low over campus by the time Ilya leaves his last class. The air is warmer than normal for March, and students have emerged from hibernation accordingly, sitting on patches of grass and pretending fifty degrees is summer weather.
Ilya, however, keeps his head down. His destination is clear— his café.
Well, not really his, of course. But close enough.
It’s a small place tucked a few blocks off campus, the kind with mismatched furniture and too many plants. Nobody bothers him there. He feels safe.
The bell above the door jingles as he steps foot into the warm, cozy atmosphere. And, immediately, Ilya’s heart stops.
Because, there in front of him, is Shane Hollander. And he’s laughing. Not the laugh from the lighthouse, or the soft, surprised one from last night.
No– this one is loud. Easy. Bright.
He’s sitting with four of his hockey teammates around a pushed-together collection of tables, one leg stretched out, baseball cap backwards atop his black hair. The table is cluttered with coffees and half-eaten pastries. Everyone around him is laughing, and Shane— he is completely different.
He’s talking animatedly with his hands, making exaggerated expressions, and, of course, smiling effortlessly at everyone. Campus golden boy. The version everyone else gets.
Ilya should leave. He almost does, but by then he’s already been seen by the barista. And besides– Shane hasn’t seen him.
So Ilya orders his usual— hot black coffee, of course— and slips into the corner booth furthest away from the laughing men in BU hockey attire. He opens his laptop, pretending to work on his overdue assignment from his statistics class.
And he absolutely does not glance over. Not when Shane throws his head back laughing. Not when he smiles at the waitress after she refills all the boys’ mugs. Especially not when his stupid hair falls into his eyes.
Ilya frowns at his screen, irritated. He’s read the same paragraph six times and not a single word has registered into his brain. Pathetic. He curses himself.
His eyes drift upward again, unable to stop himself, and Shane is grinning at something one of the guys said. The sunlight catches on his hair and…
God. He’s beautiful. Ilya thinks.
Like something from an American romance movie– too handsome, too happy, too alive.
For the first time, Ilya sees him the way the rest of campus does. People like him don’t sit alone in dark lighthouses, talking to strangers. People like Shane belong in places like this, surrounded and loved and wanted.
And Ilya… he belongs in the corner booth, hidden behind a laptop, watching. Which is exactly why this whole thing is ridiculous to him– sooner or later, Shane will realize that just like everyone else does.
Ilya lowers his eyes back to the screen, trying to focus again before failing. Again. When he glances back up, Shane is looking right at him.
Ilya freezes.
Across the café, Shane has gone quiet. His friends are still talking, but Shane isn’t listening to them. He’s looking at Ilya and smiling. Not the huge grin from before with his friends, but something smaller. Something surprised, that says, Oh, it’s you.
Ilya immediately drops his gaze back to his computer, smiling at the screen, knowing how fucked he is.
========
The café doesn’t leave Shane when he walks out of it. At least, not right away. It should, though. It’s just a small off-campus coffee shop with too much greenery, uneven lighting, and coffee that tastes slightly burnt no matter what you order. Nothing about it is supposed to stick in your head on the drive home. And yet, for Shane, it does.
All the way back to his dorm, Shane can’t stop replaying it. Ilya in the corner booth, laptop open. Not talking or anything, just… there.
It shouldn’t mean anything. And it definitely shouldn’t be the reason Shane keeps missing his exits and almost running a red light because he’s thinking about the way Ilya looked at him over and over, always meeting his eyes.
It also shouldn’t be the reason Shane ends up driving towards the lighthouse again that night, but he does. Because apparently, this is what he does now– meet strangers at abandoned buildings at the edge of the sea. Great.
By the time he pulls into the gravel lot, the evening has fully surrendered to night. Cold and dark, save for the millions of stars freckling the sky above.
Shane sits in his car for a moment. This is getting weird, he tells himself. But he gets out of the car anyway.
He’s halfway to the tower when he sees movement near the pier, and stops. Because of course. Of course he’s there.
Ilya.
Same place as always, but not quite– closer inland instead of at the end. He sits against the base of the lighthouse with his elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the water like it’s doing something worth analyzing.
Shane exhales. “Okay,” he mutters. “Either this is fate or you’re really stalking me.”
Ilya doesn’t even turn around. “You’re late.”
“Excuse me?” Shane blinks, taken aback by the other man’s statement.
“You are usually earlier than this.”
“I– what? No, I’m not.”
That makes Ilya look over his shoulder, his expression flat. He says nothing.
Shane just shakes his head, walking closer. “You know, most people say ‘hi.’ Or ‘what are you doing here?’ Or literally anything normal.”
“Oh, I know what you are doing here, hockey boy.”
Shane stops right beside him. “Oh, do you?”
Ilya looks back at the water. “Yes. You are predictable.”
Shane just hums, also looking out into the dark sea. Silence settles between the two men again, but this time, it’s different. More familiar. Shane sits down next to Ilya, fairly close. They don’t say a word for a few minutes, just enjoying each others’ company.
“You came back,” Ilya’s voice is quiet.
“Yeah, well. Apparently, I have bad decision-making skills,” Shane snorts. “My car kinda just… brought me here.”
“That is boring answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
Ilya studies him for a second, then looks at his shoes.
Shane hesitates before quietly–
“You were at the café earlier,” Ilya doesn’t react. “I saw you,” Shane adds.
A pause. “I know.”
Shane tilts his head, turning to gaze at Ilya. “You know a lot for someone who acts like he’s not paying attention to anything around him.”
“I pay attention.”
Shane just leans back on the cold wood of the tower base, longing out at the water. “...You don’t really talk to people, do you?”
Ilya doesn’t answer immediately. He just keeps watching the water in front of them, fingers loosely intertwined between his bent-up knees. Finally, he shrugs.
“Not if I can help it.”
Shane smiles weakly. “That bad, huh?”
“People are exhausting.”
“Coming from the guy who is voluntarily spending his night with another person.”
Ilya huffs quietly, though whether it’s amusement or annoyance, Shane can’t tell.
“I did not invite you, hockey boy.”
“No, but you didn’t force me to leave either.”
That comment earns Shane a glance. The moonlight illuminates Ilya’s face, making Shane smile.
“Which, for you, I’m learning is basically a declaration of friendship.” Shane adds.
“I think you are overestimating your importance.”
“Probably.”
But Shane is still smiling at Ilya, who finds, much to his irritation, that he doesn’t mind.
The truth is, he should mind. Shane Hollander belongs to another world entirely– one of loud teammates and reckless laughter and people who know his name, who expect things.
People who stay.
And Ilya has never had that. No one has ever stayed.
But, Shane came back. Not once, but twice. And in this moment, he’s sitting beside Ilya in comfortable silence like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like Ilya isn’t strange or difficult to be around.
The thought unsettles Ilya.
Beside him, Shane scoots forward to lay on his back, gazing up at the stars above.
“I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “Everyone thinks I’m super social, but honestly, most conversations feel kind of fake. Like everyone’s just waiting for their turn to talk.”
Ilya turns his head slightly. “And this is different?”
Shane considers that.
“Yeah.”
The answer is quick– not rehearsed or just to be polite– but it’s just true. Something in Ilya’s chest tightens unpleasantly. He looks away from Shane, back to the crashing waves.
“Dangerous answer,” Ilya’s voice comes out lowly.
Shane laughs softly, the stars reflecting off his brown eyes. “Why?”
“Because now I have expectations.”
Shane raises an eyebrow, looking at Ilya. “You have expectations?”
“I dislike being disappointed,” Ilya shrugs, meeting Shane’s eye.
“By me?”
“You ask many questions, hockey boy.”
Shane grins. “That’s not an answer, Ilya.”
“No.”
The smile lingers on Shane’s face. God, Ilya thinks. He smiles at everything. He’s beautiful.
The thought is ridiculous. The longer he sits here, the more Ilya can feel something dangerous beginning to settle within his chest– not dangerous because it’s unfamiliar, quite the opposite actually.
He’s felt attraction before. He’s wanted people, taken them home for just one night. But those things were simple… temporary. They were easy to walk away from, just a way to cope with the war happening in his mind. But, this– whatever this is– feels frighteningly more significant. He doesn’t even really know Shane, but they both keep returning to their spot. Shane laughs too loudly and asks too many questions and somehow never seems bothered by the silence.
He looks at Ilya like he’s something to understand rather than something to tolerate.
Shane’s voice brings Ilya out of his thoughts. “Damn, it’s getting late.”
Something unfamiliar rises in Ilya’s chest. Stay.
The thought comes so suddenly that it catches him off guard.
Stay a little longer. Just tonight. Please.
The words almost escape, but he stops them. Instead, he asks quietly, “You have somewhere important to be?”
Shane blinks, looking surprised. “No.”
Ilya nods once, trying to appear unaffected. “Good.”
Then for whatever reason, Shane smiles at him. Not the bright, fake smile everyone else gets, like in the café. This one is softer, more intimate, as though he had heard what Ilya hadn’t said.
Neither of them mentions it. And neither moves to leave.