sea(ndra

Shane turned the engine off and on again, taking a deep breath before turning the key, hoping for a miracle. As if reading his mind, the car shuddered a few times, making promising noises, only to die once more.

In the back seat, his four-year-old son was asleep in his car seat clutching his favorite stuffed duck, completely oblivious to the situation. Earlier that day, his preschool had called Shane to say he had a mild fever and should probably go home.

Shane was supposed to be getting home to give him some medicine, but now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a small child, and the mere thought of it sent a wave of panic surging through his chest.

He was living his worst nightmare.

He rubbed his face with one hand, wondering if he should get out of the car just to check what might be going on. It wasn't as if he knew much about mechanics, certainly, but God only knew how long it would take for roadside assistance to reach this spot.

Was he somewhere on Route 138?

Damn, Shane should call his mom. His parents could take Yuri somewhere more comfortable and look after him while Shane dealt with the hassle of getting his car towed to the dealership.

That was a good idea.

But just as the idea struck, the realization that his parents weren't even in town hit him hard. A wedding anniversary? Shane had a vague memory of his mom mentioning they were going away to celebrate something, and if he wasn't mistaken—which he rarely was—that day was today.

Everything was going wrong.

He could call his best friends, Rose and Hayden for help. No. It was better to call roadside assistance and hope the service would be fast enough.

Just as his fingers reached for his phone, ready to make the call, the sound of an engine caught his attention. Beside him, a red pickup truck gradually slowed down until it finally came to a stop right next to him.

"Everything okay?" the driver asked, his voice concerned.

Shane looked up from his phone and found himself staring at a blond man with beautiful blue eyes; the man had an unlit cigarette between his lips and a bit of stubble on his face.

And he was handsome.

Maybe "handsome" wasn't even the right word; The guy was drop-dead gorgeous—as if all of Shane’s wildest wet dreams had suddenly come to life.

Shane froze for a few seconds, the words slipping from his mind for a brief moment. But reality soon came crashing back. Unfortunately, this wasn't the day to fall for a stranger—not when he was in the middle of a panic attack.

"We're good," Shane replied almost reflexively, even though he clearly wasn't.

The man raised an eyebrow, obviously not believing a word Shane had said.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

But when he got no answer, he simply sighed—as if telling himself "I tried"—and gave up, his fingers returning to the steering wheel, ready to drive off and leave Shane alone.

And Shane didn't want to be alone.

Damn it.

"My car won't start," Shane admitted the moment he saw the man start his own car, ready to pull away. His voice held a note of almost embarrassed distress at having to say it out loud.

The man turned his gaze back to Shane, looking somewhat wary.

"I can take a look, if you want. I'm a mechanic, you know?"

As soon as Shane nodded the man finally allowed himself to smile.

He turned off his car again and maneuvered the pickup truck with ease, parking next to Shane’s vehicle. Then, he opened the door, taking the cigarette out of his mouth as if he’d only just remembered it was there.

Shane got out of his car too, but didn't close the door, just in case Yuri woke up.

Now, seeing him more clearly, he noticed the man was wearing a black tank top that showed off his strong arms, and jeans marked with dark stains that looked like old grease.

A real mechanic.

Seriously... what were the odds?

"British?" the man asked pointing at Shane’s car with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"It’s practical. Good for snow," Shane replied, offering a small, sheepish smile.

The man shrugged, a look of mild amusement playing on his lips.

"Fair."

He rested both hands on the bodywork and, in a practiced, automatic motion, pulled the hood release to check Shane’s engine. His eyes scanned every detail, and he seemed genuinely focused on the task at hand.

Shane stood beside him, watching without really understanding what was being done. Perhaps he should have learned about cars instead of hyper-focusing on trains throughout his childhood.

Shane was focused on this when an irritated grumble came from the back seat. Yuri, the little sleeper, had finally woken up.

The boy was rubbing his eyes with his fists, his face still crumpled from sleep, and his expression was a mix of confusion, fatigue, and the onset of tears—bothered by not being home and, worse yet, by still being sick.

“Papa...” he whimpered, his voice small and tearful.

Shane walked over to the back door, opened it, and immediately held out his arms.

“Hey...”

And before Shane could finish the sentence, Yuri unbuckled himself from the car seat—moving at lightning speed—and threw himself into Shane’s lap. The child’s fingers wrapped tightly around his father’s neck, his face buried in Shane’s shoulder.

Shane slowly rubbed the boy’s back in a soothing motion while the child mumbled softly, acting completely clingy.

“He's grumpy when he wakes up.”

The mechanic looked up from the engine, wiping one hand on his trousers before glancing at the boy. A faint smile appeared on his face.

“Mine's the same. She'd probably be screaming if she'd just woken up.”

He looked back at the engine for a few more seconds. Then, he let out a soft sigh, carefully closed the hood, and gave the bodywork two light taps.

“Look... I don't think your car can be fixed right now. I can hitch your car to the truck and drive you both home. What do you think?”

And Shane couldn't say no.

The drive was very peaceful. Yuri stayed in Shane’s lap the whole way, much calmer now, distracted by twisting strands of Shane’s hair around his fingers. Every now and then, though, he’d lift his head to watch Ilya. Curious.

Whenever Ilya noticed and looked back, Yuri’s eyes would go wide; he’d quickly hide half his face against Shane’s chest, only to peek out again a few seconds later.

It soon turned into a little silent game between the two of them, and in some strange way, it felt domestic to Shane. Yuri’s giggles began to fill the truck’s cabin, completely replacing the crying from just minutes before.

It didn't take long for the cabin to appear through the trees.

“Thank you. How much…”

"Don't even think about it. There's no need, sir...?"

"Just Shane, no "sir."

"Okay, just Shane. I'm Ilya. " The man replied with a soft laugh (a lovely sound) as he extended a hand in greeting.

And the moment Shane’s fingers met Ilya’s hand—that warm palm against his own—he couldn't help but think that maybe breaking down in the car hadn't been such a bad thing after all.

---

Shane hadn't expected to see him again, but less than a month later, there he was.

He had just picked Yuri up from school when a little blonde blur came racing past them in the reception area. Fast and precise, zeroing in on her target.

All Shane heard was an "ouch," followed by an "easy, Miluska," spoken in a voice that sounded strangely familiar.

A few meters away, he spotted Ilya. He was standing there, chatting with one of the teachers while absentmindedly running his hand through the little girl's golden hair. The girl—whose name seemed to be Mila—was clinging to his leg, trying to climb him like a tree.

It didn't take long for Ilya to notice him too; his initial surprise quickly gave way to an amused look.

Should he say hello? Did the man even remember him?

"Hey," Shane greeted him as Ilya walked over.

The man was definitely incredible to look at—a real feast for the eyes.

"Coincidence?" Ilya asked with a mischievous smile, chuckling at his own words. "Say hi, Mila."

Mila gazed at Shane and Yuri with her beautiful blue eyes. Suddenly shy, she gripped the fabric of Ilya’s trousers even tighter with her small fingers before raising one hand in a small, hesitant wave.

Yuri waved back but quickly hid half his face behind his father’s leg, leaving only one curious eye peeking out.

Shane laughed at the joke. So many schools in Montreal, and they were at the same one? What were the odds?

Maybe it really was coincidence (or fate).

---

It was pretty obvious that Mila and Yuri would become inseparable.

Mila was a high-energy girl—shy at first, but completely outgoing once she warmed up. It was easy for her to bring Yuri out of his shell and get him to join in on games. And because the kids were inseparable, he and Ilya started seeing each other more often.

They did almost everything together under the guise of doing it for the children, when in reality, they simply enjoyed each other's company.

At some point, Shane realized he knew a lot about Ilya. He knew Ilya was Russian and had moved there at a young age when his parents divorced.

He knew Ilya had taken custody of his niece, Mila, after his brother’s family was involved in a car accident, and that he had been caring for her since she was a baby. He knew Ilya had started the job initially for the money, but eventually grew to love being a mechanic and the freedom the work gave him.

He had opened a small workshop in front of his house; being his own boss allowed for a flexible schedule, ensuring he could be as present as possible in Mila’s life.

Ilya was a great guy.

Beneath that whole "Russians don't do that" persona, he was caring and concerned, always trying to ensure everyone was okay.

And maybe Shane was a little in love with him.

Every time he looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes, Shane felt his heart flutter and his palms sweat. Every time Ilya ruffled his hair in a "friendly" way, Shane felt like a teenager hitting puberty.

And the worst part was, he could almost swear Ilya was interested too. He just had no way to prove it.

---

On that day, Shane and Yuri had gone to the park for a picnic with Ilya and Mila. They had arrived early and were watching the ducks when a random woman remarked that they looked "delicious."

It was a matter of minutes, from the moment Shane had to explain why the woman had said that, to the realization hitting Yuri full force.

"But… Ducks are friends..." he murmured, his eyes filling with tears. Ducks were his favorite animal in the world; almost all his clothes featured something related to ducks, and even his favorite book (even though it always made her cry) was The Ugly Duckling.

Shane tried to explain.

He always tried to tell his son the truth and didn't want to lie to him. His fingers reaching out to wipe the tears streaming down his chubby cheeks, but Yuri just shrank away, refusing to be comforted by his father.

That was when another voice spoke up beside them.

"Is everything okay?" Ilya asked, but a single glance at Shane’s face told him things weren't okay. "Hey, why is this little baby duck crying? Someone died?"

Damn.

Just hearing the words "duck" and "die" made Yuri sob even harder.

Without hesitation, Ilya lifted him off the ground with absurd ease, settling him onto his lap. One of his hands began to move slowly up and down the boy's back, in slow, steady strokes.

Mila, who had been standing beside Ilya, clinging to his leg, tilted her head curiously and asked in Russian what was happening; Ilya simply said the boy was probably having a rough day.

Soon, she asked to be held too, and Ilya shifted her to his other arm, carrying both children as if they weighed absolutely nothing.

Mila also began patting Yuri’s back, imitating the way Ilya was comforting him. It took several long minutes for Yuri’s crying to gradually subside, turning into soft sniffles as his face remained buried in Ilya’s shoulder.

"Want to cry a little more?" Ilya asked.

The boy seemed to consider the suggestion for a few seconds, then shook his head.

"No, thank you."

Soon, Yuri seemed to realize that he wasn't being held by his father.

He looked at Ilya with his brown eyes, then at Shane, before reaching out his arms to be held by him. Seeing that Yuri wanted to go to Shane, Mila also reached out, wanting to be picked up at the same time.

Ilya smiled at him—a beautiful smile—and Shane couldn't help but imagine all his days being just like this.

It was a strangely domestic scene, but he didn't hate it at all.

He wanted this.

And also, he wanted Ilya.

Ilya was a big bear and made no secret of it; in fact, he was proud of it and loved the way people admired him. As a transfer student from Russia and the university's rising star, he was used to being the center of attention, and since his very first game, he had easily secured his spot as the team's second-favorite player.

That was probably why he and Shane didn't get along very well.

They had vastly different playing styles and disagreed on almost everything; perhaps that—all that pent-up frustration—was why Ilya had made Shane his primary target for teasing. It wasn't anything shocking, but Ilya loved calling him kotik instead of Captain —usually with a wide, amused grin—trying to elicit any reaction from Shane, no matter how small.

Shane, for his part, didn't seem to care and almost never reacted to the teasing. His brown eyes raked over Ilya, his expression always calm whenever the Russian was being particularly insufferable—as if he were deciding whether it was worth the energy to respond.

Usually, he decided it wasn't.

And that only made Ilya even more fired up.

Ilya knew Shane was anything but harmless—not with those muscles built for fight, which he kept hidden beneath loose clothing. After two years of training together, Ilya knew that Shane was hiding behind a veneer of docility, but that he was much more than people thought.

And also, he might have developed a secret crush on Shane. It appeared when he least expected it. Unfortunately—and to his disappointment—they weren't even friends. At best, they were teammates who shared a few classes and practice sessions.

But Ilya wanted more than that.

He wanted to be noticed, even if it was for acting ridiculous. He wanted to be able to give Shane everything, and—like an idiot—he realized he actually would if he could.

He would (probably) do anything for Shane Hollander.

—

On that particular day, they had just played a match against the Boston University team. The rivalry between the two squads ran deep; the tension was almost palpable the moment they stepped onto the ice.

Even so, they won. Shane and Ilya were unstoppable together, but—as in so many other games—much of that victory was due to Shane’s leadership. Shane commanded the game just as he always did: flawlessly. His natural talent was almost infuriating.

Ilya was certain that if they played on opposing teams, he would (probably) hate him.

It had been an excellent game, and everyone was in high spirits.

After the match, the teammates decided to celebrate the win at a bar. For a moment, Ilya was sure Shane would decline the invitation, as he always did, but—defying all expectations—he accepted.

He must have been in a really good mood.

As soon as they arrived at the bar, Marlow went to find a table big enough for everyone, while the other teammates headed for the dance floor, laughing and whooping loudly. Shane, on the other hand, stayed near the wall, simply watching his friends’ antics with a small smile on his lips.

That was why, less than three minutes after noticing Shane standing alone, Ilya approached him, unable to resist the urge to be by his side—even if only for a few seconds. Once he caught Shane’s attention, he held out a can, swaying it slightly in front of his eyes.

"Thanks, but..." Shane replied reflexively.

He didn't drink alcohol, regardless of the occasion; he was probably the most focused person Ilya knew. The only thing he allowed himself to drink—aside from what was on his diet plan—was a specific brand of ginger ale.

Shane was ready to refuse when he recognized the brand of his favorite soda, he frowned and looked at Ilya with a curious, incredulous expression.

"How did you..."

"I know you, Hollander" Ilya replied with a laugh. "Besides, you are boring. You are almost too predictable."

Shane rolled his eyes.

"Shut up." The words barely escaped his lips—little more than a whisper—yet he accepted the can. The smile on his face widened as he took the first sip, and then he shot Ilya a look that made his heart skip a beat.

Ilya really wanted to say "make me," but he didn't want to ruin the moment.

They hardly ever managed to be near each other without arguing, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that Shane was relaxed. He wasn't going to spoil that.

Ilya took a sip of his own beer, and for some reason, the moment felt perfect. He leaned against the wall beside Shane, their elbows lightly touching as they watched their friends joking and laughing out on the floor. Being there, right next to him, was better than Ilya had ever imagined.

Then, suddenly, everything happened too fast.

A commotion broke out on the dance floor involving one of the players from their team. One moment everyone was laughing; the next, voices had grown too loud, laced with irritation. Ilya frowned and, alongside Shane, walked almost instinctively toward the disturbance to see what had happened.

They were just a step away when a body slammed violently into Shane—a completely unnecessary shove, driven solely by the intent to hurt him.

Someone—whom Ilya would later recognize as a player from the Boston team—hit him hard enough to make him instantly lose his balance.

Then came the sound. Low, almost stifled.

A hoarse noise escaped Shane’s lips—like the sound a wounded animal might make—quiet enough to go unnoticed amidst the chaos. Unnoticed by everyone except Ilya.

And in that instant, Ilya saw nothing but red.

The blue of in his eyes were consumed in a few seconds by the black of his pupils. Blood rushed through his veins so fast he could hear it pounding in his ears. Fury surged in his chest instantly, like gasoline meeting a flame.

Fuck this.

Before anyone could grasp what was happening, Ilya was already charging like a predator stalking its prey.

Fuck all of this

He struck his opponent with enough force to send him crashing to the ground—as if a man weighing well over a hundred and thirty kilos had no weight at all.

Then he began to rain down punches.

One blow. Then another. And another.

The man tried to defend himself. He landed a punch on Ilya, and as he tried to shove him away, his fingernails tore into Ilya’s cheek, leaving a stinging gash. But Ilya didn't care.

In that moment, only one thought filled his mind.

It wasn't enough.

In the distance, Ilya could almost hear Shane calling out to him, saying it was all right. It took four people to pull Ilya off his opponent. Even then, a part of him remained unsatisfied.

He wanted to kill that man.

His chest heaved with heavy breaths as he kept his eyes locked on the Boston player. The animal inside him was still thrashing, desperate to break free and finish what he had started.

At some point, Shane stepped closer.

His fingers touched the cut on Ilya’s cheek, carefully examining the wound. He almost seemed nervous, his hands trembled as the blood—the existence of which Ilya hadn’t even noticed until then—trickled down his skin.

Shane was saying something, but Ilya couldn’t make out a single word. All he could see was the man on the other side trying to get back up.

That son of a bitch could still stand.

He tried to break free from the hands holding him, wanting to finish the job, but Shane stepped in his way.

"Damn it, look at me, Ilya!" Shane snapped, his voice rough, edged with something close to anger. His fingers tightened around Ilya's jaw as his other hand cradled the back of his head, threading into his hair and forcing his gaze upward until their eyes met.

He didn't let him look away.

It took a few seconds for the blue to slowly return to Ilya’s eyes. As soon as he noticed the focus coming back, Shane let out an almost imperceptible sigh and guided Ilya’s face to his own neck, pressing him close in a silent gesture of protection—as if to say, without words, that he was safe.

The scent instantly overwhelmed his senses.

Ilya inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with that aroma, while the nightclub around them descended into chaos. Players from both teams were trading punches on all sides.

Ilya focused all his attention on Shane’s hand stroking his hair. He was murmuring something in French, his voice serving as an anchor. Gradually, the fury began to subside. He had almost managed to calm down when another player from the Boston team lunged toward him, clearly intent on avenging his friend.

The man looked deranged. His lips were pulled back, baring his fangs. He was in a semi-transformed state; his fingernails had elongated into claws ready to strike. But he didn't get any closer.

Shane pulled Ilya into a tight embrace, shielding him with his body—protecting him as if he were something precious—and simply growled. A deep, menacing sound rumbled in his chest, loud and powerful enough to silence the scuffle for a brief moment.

The scent of danger filled the air. It was heavy, suffocating, almost poisonous. A primal warning that made skin crawl and awakened an instinct, carrying a clear message: stay away.

People around them stepped back without even realizing it.

Shane’s eyes did not stray from the man before him; his pupils had contracted into dark slits, like those of a feline about to strike if provoked.

No one there knew exactly what kind of animal Shane Hollander was but in that moment, everyone understood they couldn't take another step.

And for the first time in his life, Ilya felt a mix of panic and desire course through his body.

Because his theory had finally been confirmed.

Shane Hollander was definitely not harmless.

It was funny.

Whenever they ran into each other in the school hallways, Shane would change direction and vanish the moment he saw him. On one particularly memorable occasion—when Ilya decided to take the initiative—he was pretty sure Shane had faked an emergency just to avoid having that conversation. He still laughed whenever he thought about it.

The thing was, Ilya was trying to be patient. Trying to give him space.

Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit, but damn it, he was trying not to be a jerk about the whole thing.

He was trying to be cool about it for Shane Hollander’s sake.

Even though Shane was avoiding him, he knew the guy didn't hate him. At most, he was embarrassed by the awkward way they’d discovered they were soulmates and by what was written on their soulmate marks.

When he was fourteen and first saw the words written on his waist, Ilya hadn't known what to think.

"You can't smoke here."

The very first thing his soulmate would say to him was a complaint.

Great.

He didn't want to blame that phrase, but it was probably the reason Ilya had started smoking in the first place. He enjoyed the challenge, and in some strange way, it made him feel closer to the person destined for him.

Of course, when they actually met, he hadn't intended to reply with that insult, and he regretted the words the moment they left his lips.

S'yebis' otsyuda. “Fuck off.”

It hadn't been intentional; he’d spoken purely out of reflex. He would have said something nicer if he’d been paying attention, but—damn it—the words had slipped out before he could stop them, driven more by his reflexive irritation at being told he was doing something wrong than by any real thought.

He really hoped Shane wasn't upset about it. He didn't want to think about how Shane must have felt seeing those words appear on his skin for the first time and then translating their meaning.

Sighing, Ilya closed his locker while gathering his books. He was grabbing the textbooks for his next class when he spotted Shane at the far end of the hallway, walking toward him completely distracted. He was gorgeous. Ilya hadn't realized he had a "type" until he saw that boy—tall, with a serious expression and beautiful freckles dusting his cheeks. He was simply perfect.

When Shane got close and finally saw Ilya, he froze for a few seconds like a deer in headlights. Those brown eyes stared back at him, and he looked ready to bolt at any moment, though there was clearly no ill will in his gaze. He was probably just shy.

When Ilya took a step toward him—likely because he enjoyed teasing him and watching him get flustered—Shane turned around, ready to run.

He’d taken about three steps when Ilya couldn't help himself and spoke up:

“You can't keep running away from me forever, Shane,” Ilya said, loud enough for him to hear.

Shane stopped, looking almost embarrassed by the excuse he was about to give. His shoulders tensed for a moment, and he hesitated a few seconds before finally turning just enough to glance at Ilya over his shoulder.

"I'm just late for class," Shane replied. As he spoke, a flush slowly crept across his face, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He turned away again, though, and resumed walking at a brisk pace.

Ilya raised an eyebrow as he watched him walk off.

"Your class is in the other direction," he pointed out.

Shane froze mid-step.

Ilya leaned back against the locker and crossed his arms over his chest, an amused smile threatening to break across his face. He could practically see the exact moment Shane realized his mistake.

Shane turned to look at Ilya, blinked, and turned beet red.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Ilya repeated, amused and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

He watched Shane walk past him with hesitant steps, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. The effort it took, however, was almost painfully obvious.

Then, as soon as he’d put a few meters of distance between them, he started to run. Literally run.

Ilya couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face as he watched the other boy’s figure disappear down the hallway.

He was cute when he was nervous.

It was worth being patient.

He would wait until he was ready to talk.

-

A few days later, Ilya was smoking outside the school, leaning against the brick wall and watching the smoke dissipate in the cold air.

The break was nearly over, and the flow of students was gradually slowing down. Ilya took another unhurried drag, his eyes wandering distractedly across the courtyard.

He had an English test later and was so stressed that he couldn't resist the urge to sneak a cigarette.

That was when he saw Shane approaching.

The other boy hesitated for a few seconds the moment he spotted him. His steps slowed to a near-halt, as if he were debating whether to keep going or turn around and run while he still had the chance.

For an instant, Ilya truly believed that was exactly what he would do; after a month of being avoided, he had grown used to seeing Shane’s back every time they crossed paths. But to his surprise, Shane finally gathered the courage and kept walking toward him.

"You really shouldn't be smoking here," Shane said. A small smile played on his lips as he spoke. Even though he was nervous—his fingers fidgeting with one another—he avoided looking Ilya in the eye for too long.

Ilya laughed when he heard that phrase.

Shane Hollander knew how to be funny?

"Fuck off," Ilya replied, clearly amused. Shane smiled at him, his nervousness seeming to vanish for a few seconds.

For a moment, the two fell silent. It was strange how that simple exchange of words seemed to relieve some of the tension that had been building between them for weeks.

After a while, Ilya let out a sigh.

"Sorry about the... swear word on your chin."

Shane’s smile faltered.

Instinctively, he raised his hand to his neck, his fingers finding the exact spot where the other mark was written. At that same instant, Ilya felt his own mark sting slightly.

It was always strange when that happened—a silent reminder that they were linked forever.

"At least it was in Russian", Ilya thought. It would be a thousand times more embarrassing if it were in English.

"It’s fine. I stopped caring about it a long time ago. And yours..."

Before Shane could finish, Ilya grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it a few inches, revealing the phrase written on his waist.

It was a casual gesture. Impulsive, perhaps.

Shane immediately turned red. His eyes widened for a moment before darting away to anywhere but Ilya’s exposed skin.

"Cool," he murmured, his fingers fidgeting nervously again. "Cool. Very cool."

Ilya had to stifle a laugh.

Silence settled between them once more. Ilya took another drag of his cigarette while Shane stood beside him, restless. Shane seemed to want to say something, but he dint know how.

Then, suddenly:

"So, do you want to come over to my dorm for dinner sometime?" The words tumbled out in a nervous rush. "I can make something for us. Do you have any allergies or intolerance? Is there anything you hate? Because I could make pasta, or soup. Do you like soup? Or meat. Actually, I could make..."

Ilya started to laugh.

Damn, Shane was adorable.

Smiling, Ilya dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Then he took a few steps forward. Ilya moved closer slowly, until they were near enough for Shane to catch the faint scent of tobacco mixed with his cologne.

For a moment, Shane seemed to forget how to move.

Ilya tilted his head and planted a quick kiss on his lips. It was so brief that Shane barely had time to process it.

Then Ilya leaned in and kissed him again a little longer this time.

His hand rose almost automatically, without much thought, as if it already knew exactly where to go. His fingers found Shane’s chin—the exact spot where his soul mark was—and he used that hold to pull him closer, guiding his face with a gentleness that allowed their lips to align perfectly.

That simple touch made Shane tremble.

Ilya deepened the kiss calmly, grazing his lips unhurriedly. He gave the rigid Shane time to gradually yield and begin moving on his own. At first, Shane remained tense, as if still trying to figure out if this was real. But, little by little, that stiffness melted away.

Soon, Shane’s fingers touched Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer as well. His fingers found the exact spot where Ilya’s mark was, drawing a soft gasp from him against Shane’s lips.

They probably could have gone on kissing for a long time if the school bell hadn't rung.

When Ilya finally pulled back, he stayed close enough to still feel Shane’s breath. Blue eyes stared into brown ones with an almost fierce intensity.

Shane seemed to have completely forgotten how to breathe. His mouth opened and closed a few times until he finally said:

"Is that a yes?"

And Ilya couldn't help but laugh again.

A tristeza sufocante. O vazio. A sensação de estar afundando enquanto fingia para todo mundo que estava bem (fazia anos que não estava).

Ilya sempre havia escondido tudo atrás de sorrisos fáceis e piadas idiotas. Era o que sabia fazer de melhor... Fingir. Era mais simples daquele jeito.

Mas, ultimamente, tudo o fazia pensar nela.

Ele usava o anel dela usava todos os dias, no inicio era só para se sentir menos solitário, mas em algum momento ele não conseguia tirar. O metal frio em seu dedo era um lembrete constante de que, em algum momento, ele havia amado e precisado de alguém tao profundamente quanto o próprio ar que respirava.

E agora... Ilya sabia que deveria estar se despedindo desses sentimentos. Sabia que ja deveria ter aceitado.

Mas sentia tanta falta dela. Tanta.

Sentia das tardes em que se sentava aos pés dela apenas para ouvir sua voz. Dos toques distraídos e reconfortante , da sensação dos dedos passando pelos seus cabelos.

Eles sempre tinham sido inseparáveis. Tão próximos. Tão ligados.

Por isso, parte dele se recusava a dizer adeus. Porque dizer adeus significava aceitar que aquela pessoa já não estava mais ali e ele ainda não conseguia fazer isso.

Sua vida inteira havia girado em torno de cuidar dos outros. De suprir o que sua família precisava. De resolver problemas antes mesmo que alguém precisasse pedir ajuda.

E agora, por que estava se esforçando tanto?

Por quem estava lutando? Sem sua mãe ali, ele já não sabia responder.

O futuro parecia vazio de um jeito que o assustava.

Não havia uma luz esperando por ele no fim do túnel. Não havia nada ou sequer uma promessa de que as coisas ficariam melhores. E, às vezes, em seus momentos mais sombrios, ele se perguntava se valia a pena continuar nadando.

Se ele deveria continuar mesmo que as ondas o atingiam sem descanso. Uma após a outra.

Então, Ilya fazia a única coisa que ainda conseguia fazer. Ele implorava aos céus, aos deuses antigos e aos novos, a qualquer coisa que pudesse estar ouvindo que alguém o salvasse.

Daquele sentimento.

Daquela realidade.

Daquele oceano.

It took a few seconds for the realization to cut through the hangover haze.

Ilya blinked slowly and let his gaze wander around the room. It didn't look like his place, but, honestly, that wasn't the main concern. Waking up in unfamiliar locations wasn't exactly new to him; after all, he has had more wild nights than he could count.

The problem wasn't the location. 

The problem was that there was clearly a man lying on his chest.

Ilya turned his head slowly, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his temple, and stared at the stranger. A head rested against his chest, covered in long black hair. The person was breathing softly, clearly deep in sleep. Ilya raised a hand and brushed the hair aside to get a better look at who it was.

And damn... Fucking gorgeous.

Even through his grogginess, Ilya noticed it instantly.

What a hot man.

Beautiful freckles were scattered across his face, and he looked like something straight out of Ilya’s wettest dreams. 

The man was wearing a loose sweatshirt, and from Ilya’s point of view, he could catch glimpses of pale shoulders and a muscular chest. He didn't know how he’d managed it, but clearly, the night before, he had achieved the impossible and gone home with a guy like this. He almost regretted not remembering it.

Sensing he was being watched, the man slowly opened his eyes.

Such beautiful brown eyes.

And before Ilya could think of anything clever to say, the stranger smiled at him, murmured something in a language he didn't understand and, without further ado, kissed him.

Ilya certainly wasn't going to question it.

At first, the kiss was shy, almost playful, as if it were something they did every day. Soon, however, the kisses grew longer and more intense. The man’s hand moved up from Ilya’s chest and threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer—as if that were even possible. His tongue grazed the line of Ilya’s lips while his fingernails lightly raked against the back of his neck.

Ilya wrapped his arm around the man’s waist. He could already feel the excitement spreading through his body like a flame, and honestly, if this was the result of the previous night’s drinking, then maybe drinking until he passed out was an excellent idea after all.

But before anything could happen, a sound interrupted the moment.

It was a low sound, almost muffled, and it sounded like… crying?

The man let out a weary groan against Ilya’s mouth before pulling away. He sat on Ilya’s lap for a moment—his lips still red and moist from the kiss—and remained motionless, as if trying to confirm something. When the noise came again, he sighed, clearly frustrated, and got out of bed.

Ilya watched him disappear through the doorway, still trying to make sense of what was happening.

Was there a child there?

It took a few seconds for the idea to register in his aching head. Was that man a father? A single dad? Ilya tried to imagine someone walking out on a guy like that and simply couldn't. Honestly, it seemed like a crime.

With his mind still hazy from the hangover, he finally sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair. That’s when he noticed another strange detail. His clothes weren't scattered around the room. In fact, they weren't even in sight. Instead, he was wearing soft pajamas that definitely didn't belong to him.

A shiver ran down his spine.

"What the fuck...?"

Ilya got out of bed and left the room, determined to find out where his things were. However, as soon as he entered the living room, his steps faltered.

The man was standing near the sofa, holding a child. The boy looked to be about two years old—chubby, with rosy cheeks—and was wearing blue pajamas covered in stars. Before Ilya could even take in the scene, the child spotted him.

The little one’s eyes lit up.

A huge smile spread across his face, and he immediately reached out his arms toward Ilya.

"Papa!"

Ilya froze.

His gaze swept across the room almost instinctively, and that was when he noticed the photographs.

There were frames scattered all over the house. Photos of them at the beach, hugging on the sofa, sleeping together, holding the child. In one, the three of them were covered in sand, smiling at the camera. In another, the man was kissing his cheek while the baby laughed in his lap.

Then he saw the wedding photo.

"Shane & Ilya, 2026"

His stomach sank.

In the picture, he looked a few years older. He was wearing an impeccable black suit and wore a serious expression, but the way he was looking at that man was impossible to ignore. There was affection, admiration, and something so intense it almost made him uncomfortable.

Before he had time to react, the man—whose name he now knew was Shane—simply placed the child in his arms.

The small, warm weight against his chest made his brain short-circuit. The boy settled in immediately, grabbing his T-shirt with familiarity and resting his head on his shoulder as if it were part of their routine.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Shane asked as he walked toward the kitchen.

"W... whatever you want to give me." Ilya kept staring at the child, who was watching him back with absolute calm.

"Ilya... are you okay?" Shane glanced his way.

"I..." He swallowed hard. "Yeah. Just a headache."

Shane kept watching him for a few seconds before sighing.

"Do you want me to leave Yuri with my mom today while I'm at work?"

Yuri.

The boy instantly buried his face in Ilya’s neck, hugging him tighter, as if the thought of separation were the worst thing in the world. Ilya remained motionless, unsure of what to say. He didn't even know how to look after a child, but it couldn't be that hard, right?

He had the feeling that if he were to part ways with the child, the boy would be devastated.

"No need. We're fine," he replied after a few moments, and Shane simply nodded.

The rest of the day passed with strange tranquility. Shane left right after breakfast, mentioning there was food for them in the freezer and gave him a quick kiss before heading out, telling him to call if he needed anything. Shane seemed wary, but Yuri—two years and nine months old—flatly refused to leave Ilya’s lap for more than a few seconds.

It was a relief to realize the child understood Russian; despite being extremely spoiled (something Ilya suspected was his own fault), the boy was generally obedient and ate everything put on his plate.

After lunch, they ended up sitting on the sofa watching cartoons. 

The boy laughed and reacted excitedly to the colors and movement on the screen. At some point, Yuri fell asleep against his chest. Ilya looked down at the boy, watching the small fingers still clutching his shirt and the completely relaxed expression on his face.

The whole thing was absurd. 

Had he transmigrated? 

Had he perhaps traveled to the future? 

Perhaps he was still dreaming. Yes. Probably.

He hadn’t realized he wanted a family before this. And if it was a dream, he hoped he wouldn’t wake up anytime soon.

Soon, drowsiness set in; his eyelids grew heavy as he tried every possible way to stay awake. 

He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to return to his miserable reality of heavy drinking, with no one waiting for him at home. Even so, his eyes closed against his will—as if an invisible force were pressing down on him—and he drifted off to sleep on the sofa.

—

When he opened his eyes again, the world was not the same.

The ceiling was the same as in his student dorm—white, with faint stains in spots he knew by heart, illuminated by that same dim, impersonal light. Sunlight didn't stream through the window quite the way it used to, and his head ached, but it was nothing compared to the crushing pain of not waking up in the other reality.

Realization dawned slowly, like a tide rising unhurriedly, and Ilya let out a heavy sigh before he even moved.

 He already knew. He was back.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," his roommate said from the doorway, his backpack already on. "You're going to be late."

The door slammed shut right after, leaving the room in silence.

Ilya lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling as if expecting something to change, but nothing did. 

There was no Shane. No Yuri. No photos scattered around the house, nor that strange warmth of a life that had seemed to be his.

It was as if all of that had never existed.

He closed his eyes for a moment longer than he should have and felt a heaviness in his chest. 

He wasn't exactly sad. It is just….  good things didn't last for him. They never did.

Perhaps he wasn't allowed to be happy.

Ilya got up mechanically, put on his uniform, and left the dorm without really paying attention to his reflection in the hallway mirror. On the way to school, everything moved at the usual pace: students walking in groups, teachers heading to class; no one seemed to notice that anything had changed.

The main hallway was crowded when he entered. The usual din of voices mingled with hurried footsteps and the sound of doors opening and closing. Ilya walked through it all as if slightly out of sync, observing without truly participating.

That was when he saw him.

The boy had his back turned, talking to someone else. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and there was something… familiar. Dark hair, cut somewhat short, falling casually across his forehead.

And then he turned around.

For a second, the sounds of the hallway seemed distant. 

The air caught in Ilya's throat.

The person the boy was talking to smiled and kept walking, as if guiding him through the school, and the two of them headed his way in what felt like slow motion.

"Rozy, this is the transfer student," someone nearby said, breaking the suspended moment. "He’s joining the hockey team."

The boy looked him straight in the eye.

Beautiful brown eyes.

"Shane," he said, naturally extending a hand. "Shane Hollander."

And perhaps Ilya wasn't going crazy. Perhaps it hadn't been a dream, nor a cruel coincidence.

Perhaps it was simply inevitable.

The thought of having no choice, of simply having to believe that "destiny" or the "universe" knew what was best for him, made him feel sick. He hated the idea of ​​having no control over his own life.

Perhaps that was why he had made a rule for himself.

He didn't know exactly when it had started, but at some point in his life, likely after that beautiful (and frightening) story his mother told, he began to completely avoid eye contact with people.

His mother assumed it was shyness, but that wasn't quite it. It was simply... comfortable.

That was why Shane decided that if he ever met his soulmate, he wanted to get to know them first. He wanted it to be real, for the feelings to be real.

If that person was truly the right one for him, he would be able to figure that out without the universe's help. Shane believed that love should only emerge after getting to know someone's flaws, virtues, annoying quirks, and odd habits, before any "magical connection" could interfere.

Shane wanted to choose to be with that person of his own free will. But that didn't stop him from imagining what she might be like. Would she be sweet and patient? Would she have short hair or long?

He really wanted to know.

-

It was a Monday, and Shane was terribly late for class.

He should have woken up earlier. Usually, he was a model student, but for some reason, everything seemed to go wrong that day. First, his alarm didn't go off. Then, he spilled coffee on his shirt and had to change it. Now, he was running through the school hallways as if his life depended on it.

He was bounding up the stairs, skipping steps and ignoring the odd looks he got along the way, when his path was blocked by a student standing right in the middle of the staircase.

He wouldn't be able to get around him in time.

"You're in my way," Shane said, his voice sounding more irritated than he intended.

What a horrible day.

"Then maybe take another route?" the other boy replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Shane frowned.

The boy was clearly skipping class. Leaning against the railing, he held a cigarette between his fingers and seemed completely unconcerned about any consequences. Worse yet, in some twisted way, he acted as if Shane were the problem.

The silence that followed was almost offensive.

Shane’s gaze remained fixed on the cigarette. If he hadn't been so late, he might have started an argument over it. He might have complained about school rules or the horrible smell of the smoke.

But, unfortunately, he had exactly one minute to get to algebra class without being marked tardy.

"Asshole," he muttered as he walked past the stranger.

His shoulder brushed against the other boy’s due to the lack of space. It was brief contact, but forceful enough to demonstrate his efficiency.

He wasn't going to be another minute late because of some idiot guy.

"Nice to meet you too," the boy replied, his tone oddly amused.

Shane snorted.

Without looking back, he kept walking down the hallway, quickening his pace toward the classroom.

He never expected to see that guy again in his life.

-

A few days later, their paths crossed again.

It was lunchtime, and Shane was sitting under a tree, soaking up the sun during the break while eating his snack, when someone approached.

"Shane Hollander, right?"

The first thing he noticed was the pair of slightly worn-in sneakers. Then, the pants (clearly well-worn and covered in pen doodles) mostly stupid stuff, the kind of thing teenagers did when they were bored. The uniform shirt had also been customized in a strange way (completely against school rules) fitting snugly over the strong chest of someone who likely worked out often. Shane saw thin lips curved into a carefree smile, and before his eyes could connect with his, he looked away.

"Yeah. And you are...?"

"Ilya Rozanov."

"Cool. " Shane muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on his own lunch.

In reality, he hadn't the faintest idea why that boy was talking to him, but he was pretty sure it wasn't a good thing. It never was.

"Do you need something?" he asked after an awkward silence stretched between them.

"No, actually." Ilya shrugged. "I just wanted to know a bit more about the prodigy people were talking about. The big star, Shane Hollander."

Shane raised an eyebrow.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Then it’s going to take sixteen years."

Ilya, who was still standing in front of him (conveniently blocking his sunlight) arched an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement, as if he’d just discovered something unexpected.

Apparently, Shane Hollander had a sense of humor.

"You’re actually funny."

Ilya noted this and, uninvited, sat down next to Shane. He pulled a sandwich from his backpack and started eating, occasionally stealing bits of Shane’s lunch as if he’d been doing it for years.

And, in a strange way, Shane didn't mind.

—

They became friends.

Shane couldn’t say exactly when it happened. Maybe it was at that lunch, maybe during afternoons in the library or the endless discussions during class. All Shane knew was that one day he was alone, and the next, he’d started saving a seat next to him without even realizing it.

The fact was, it happened Shane had made a new friend. An annoying new Russian friend who had a weird habit of teasing him simply because he found it funny.

Shane had only caught glimpses of Ilya, usually when the other boy was distracted. He’d seen the blond hair that always seemed tousled, the small mole on his cheek, and the lips that rarely lost that annoying smile. He’d watched him in profile—staring at a notebook as if ready to murder it, or gazing at the chalkboard as if English were a terrible invention.

Shane had seen Ilya laugh, but he had never seen his eyes.

Sometimes, he wondered what they looked like.

Ilya had once asked why Shane never looked him directly, and when he got an answer, he seemed neither satisfied nor dissatisfied.

Shane had expected a joke. He expected Ilya to laugh it off or make a sarcastic comment, but he didn't.

He simply nodded and kept walking beside him down the hallway, muttering something about an English test.

—

The first time Shane considered the possibility that he was in love with Ilya was when he introduced him to his childhood best friend, Hayden.

Hayden and Shane had known each other since preschool and had grown up together. Hayden was likely Shane’s first friend; had his parents not moved to another city, the two would still be attending the same school, attached at the hip.

That was why Shane was genuinely happy when Hayden came to visit.

He missed his friend, but he also had to admit he was a little nervous.

He wanted the two of them to get along because he cared deeply for the two of them. Ilya had become an important part of his life, and Shane really wanted the three of them to become a trio. So, when Hayden knocked on the door, Shane couldn't help but hold onto Ilya’s arm, his fingers lightly gripping the other man's elbow.

"Be nice," he murmured, his thumb absently tracing small circles against Ilya’s skin.

Ilya grumbled something unintelligible. 

"Ilya."

"I’m always nice."

Naturally, the meeting was a disaster.

Every time Hayden said something, Ilya had a sarcastic retort ready. Every time Hayden told a story, Ilya found a way to contradict him or crack a joke about it. Within an hour, Ilya had become Hayden’s worst enemy, and there was absolutely nothing Shane could do about it.

By late afternoon (after Hayden declared he was seriously considering killing Ilya) he left, promising to return only when the Russian wasn't around. Shane just snorted, muttering to himself that he should have seen this coming, as his eyes settled on the figure sprawled across his bed.

Ilya was lounging there as if he owned the room, flipping through scattered comic books while complaining about the size of Shane’s collection.

"I can't believe Wonder Woman killed Superman in Dead Earth. Besides, why the hell would Superman keep kryptonite in his own house? That’s so stupid. It doesn't even make sense."

Shane watched the way he flipped through the pages with an indignant expression. The blue sweatshirt he was wearing was a bit tight around the arms, and Shane was almost certain it was his. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead, and he looked completely at ease there, complaining about Shane’s questionable taste in comic books.

He looked handsome.

Had he always been like that?

hane blinked several times trying to compare the two images he had of Ilya. The one from when they first met, and the current one. He was basically the heartthrob of half the student body, and honestly, Shane couldn't blame them.

Everyone said Ilya looked like one of those Greek gods straight out of a mythology book. And, for some reason, almost everyone commented on his eyes.

According to what people said, his best friend’s eyes were blue. Beautiful. They compared them to the ocean, the sky, and anything else poetically blue that came to mind.

What would it be like to look into them?

He wanted to look into them.

After a few minutes, Ilya noticed Shane was being too quiet and turned his head toward him. Instantly, Shane panicked and looked away.

Ilya frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing," Shane replied too quickly. His heart was pounding against his chest, and his hands began to tremble at his sides.

Oh, no. 

No, no, no, no, no.

Please, let this be a heart attack.

But it wasn't, because Shane was in love.

This wasn't supposed to be happening. Ilya was his friend, and this could ruin everything. What if it wasn't mutual? What if Ilya found out and started avoiding him?

Besides, maybe there was someone waiting for Ilya. Maybe his soulmate was out there somewhere in the world, and when he finally found them, he would leave Shane behind.

Maybe he should hide it. Yes, that seemed like a good idea. Shane was good at hiding things.

He would pretend nothing was happening. That this was all some sort of mass delusion. He definitely wouldn't let this go any further, and if Ilya ended up with someone else, he would support him—because they were friends, and friendship came before feelings.

Shane agreed to pretend everything was fine, but for some reason, the thought of Ilya being happy with someone else hurt far more than it should have.

-

The discovery happened during an argument, like almost everything between them.

The two of them were sitting in the library, arguing about biology for nearly half an hour. They never reached a consensus on anything, and the librarian was already used to it; as long as they didn't disturb the other students, she simply pretended not to hear them.

"Your interpretation makes no sense!" Shane complained, pointing to the open book in front of him.

"Of course it does!" Ilya shot back immediately, leaning over the table to read the passage again. "It’s literally written right here."

"No."

"Yes"

Ilya let out an indignant sound and ran a hand through his already messy hair.

"You're impossible."

"I'm impossible? You're making things up!"

"Shane!"

"What?!"

They both turned at the same time, too irritated to realize what they were doing. And finally, they looked at each other.

Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s, and suddenly, everything else lost its importance. The noise of the library seemed to vanish, the surrounding voices grew distant, and the argument about biology evaporated completely from his mind. 

Because Ilya’s eyes were blue. Not the exaggerated shade of blue people described in the school hallways, nor did they look like the ocean or the sky, as everyone insisted on saying.

They were a shade of blue Shane had never seen before—so beautiful that Shane couldn't believe he had gone so long without seeing them.

Across the table, Ilya had also frozen. The irritation vanished from his face as quickly as it had appeared, and for a moment, he just sat there staring at Shane. Then, a slow smile spread across his lips as if a missing piece had finally clicked into place.

"Of course it was you," he murmured.

Shane felt his heart race.

Because, for the first time in his life, he didn't want to look away.

For years, he had avoided the possibility of meeting his soulmate, afraid that it might not be real—but there he was: his soulmate was the guy he was already in love with.

His fingers compulsively tightened around the napkin resting on his lap, crumpling the fabric between his hands. He was so nervous that his heart felt as though it was practically leaping out of his chest. 

This meeting had to go well.

The Fox Clan was fading away. With each passing generation, their numbers dwindled catastrophically, largely due to the legends surrounding them: tales describing them as demons of such exquisite beauty that they became objects of intense desire throughout the supernatural world.

And that was precisely why Shane was so nervous. After all, marrying someone from the Dragon Clan meant absolute protection.

“It’s alright if it doesn’t work out,” his mother, Yuna, murmured discreetly, leaning slightly toward him. She took one of his hands, trying to calm him down. “We have other options.”

But Shane knew it wasn’t that simple.

Yuna was counting on this. Aside from the Dragon Clan, very few others could provide what they needed.

He had to make it work.

That was why, for the first time in years, he had put on his finest suit and his best shoes, all to make a good first impression. The shirt was so tight but according to his mother, he looked stunning in it, and that had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Shane tried to take a deep breath. 

The air struggled to fill his lungs as he stared nervously at the door. His knees bounced beneath the table without him even realizing it. He didn’t even care if his future husband was handsome; all he could think about was whether or not he would be chosen.

What options would they have then?

Shane was already formulating a Plan B when the restaurant door opened and a man walked in.

His blond hair was swept back in an elegant style, and his eyes were as blue as the ocean. He wore a custom-tailored black suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. Handsome.

The man slowed his pace and stopped before their table. He smiled politely and greeted Shane’s parents. Then, his blue eyes turned toward Shane. Curious. 

“Ilya Rozanov,” the man said after staring at him for a few seconds, extending his hand.

“Shane Hollander,” Shane replied, his throat catching, as he reached out to grasp the other man’s hand.

“I know.”

The moment their fingers touched, Shane felt an electric current shoot through his body. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t suppress the impulse to withdraw his hand, almost abruptly, in a manner far too rude for someone trying to make a good first impression.

Ilya looked at him with a raised eyebrow but said nothing. He took his seat immediately, and it wasn’t long before everyone had placed their orders.

The conversation began almost instantly. Yuna and Ilya spoke mainly about business, alliances, and security. The dragons held deep-seated views, and in their eyes, the proposed arrangement offered little real advantage.

Shane tried to pay attention, but as the seconds ticked by, a heat seemed to radiate from his fingertips like poison, so intense it nearly stole his breath. He tried to ignore the unsettling sensation and join the conversation. He offered his opinion on a few details, but every time Ilya’s eyes met his, the heat in his fingers intensified, and his stomach churned with nervousness.

Something strange was happening.

“What do you think about summer?” Yuna asked. “A summer wedding would be lovely. I can secure the perfect venue at an incredible price. I also need to speak with vendors, hire a planner, and discuss all the details regarding your living arrangements. The press will adore the union of our families. I’m certain your company’s stock will climb at least fifteen percent once the news breaks.”

Shane’s mind wasn’t functioning properly. 

One moment they were discussing the unification of their clans; the next, it seemed his wedding was already being planned. Their food had arrived at some point and sat untouched before him, for the only thing he could focus on was the sensation of his body burning up. He could almost feel his face flushing red.

What the hell was happening to him?

“I’d prefer we do this as soon as possible,” Ilya said, his voice low yet resonant. “We can sign the papers next week and hold the official ceremony whenever my husband deems appropriate.”

My husband.

He liked the sound of that. He liked it so much that he could feel a sound forming in his throat, but the moment he realized what was happening, he stifled it.

By next week, he would be married to the man sitting across from him, living in the lakeside home he had just finished building. 

Would there be enough room for all of Ilya’s things?

Maybe his house needed renovating so he could store everything. In any case, he did need to renovate the house if they wanted to have children, and he particularly wanted to have children.

At least 2 kids.

It would be incredible if they looked like Ilya.

Shane’s mind was racing a mile a minute, and he didn’t even realize where his thoughts were leading him. He felt suffocated.

He needed a break before he completely lost it.

“Excuse me.” Shane stood up abruptly, sending his chair scraping a few centimeters across the floor.

His parents cast him a curious glance. They wanted to ask if something was wrong, but before they had the chance, Shane was already walking away. His shoulders were tense as he made his way toward the hallway, and he didn’t slow down until he reached the bathroom door.

As soon as he stepped inside, he braced both hands against the marble sink and closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes a moment later. He realized that staring at his own reflection wasn’t helping matters at all. Shane looked almost pathetic. Ridiculous. His face was slightly flushed, his hair a bit disheveled, and he looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

He didn’t know what was happening to his body, but he felt like he was burning up, agitated. Euphoric.

When he finally took a deep breath and decided he’d spent enough time in there, he looked up at the mirror and found Ilya’s reflection staring back at him from the doorway. He had been standing there for who knows how long, watching him in silence.

“Do you need something?”

“Not really. You looked uncomfortable. I just wanted to check on you,” Ilya replied with an air of nonchalance. 

Shane knew the test was already over. They had been talking about getting married the following week, so this encounter in the bathroom could only be for one reason.

"And you also want to talk without my parents around, apparently."

A smile appeared on Ilya’s lips as he tilted his head to the side, clearly amused.

“You caught me.”

Shane’s heart stumbled in his chest at that smile, but he pretended as if nothing were happening. He turned around, finally looking directly at Ilya, leaning back against the sink in an unconvincing attempt to appear at ease.

He was anything but comfortable in that situation.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I just want to hear your thoughts. You didn’t say much during dinner.”

Ilya soon began to approach. His steps were slow, almost calculated, as he drew closer and closer. 

“Is there anything about this arrangement that doesn’t sit right with you? Perhaps you have a property you intend to keep as a second home, but I insist that we live close to my primary residence. Mainly so the children can be near other relatives while they’re growing up.”

He placed a hand on either side of Shane’s body, resting them on the sink, pinning him between the cold marble and his own body.

“Excuse me?” Shane blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard. His mouth opened to reply more than once, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“Our children, Shane. We’ll have at least three. I think having them close in age is a good idea, too. That way, they can play and grow up together.”

Then Ilya leaned in, caring little for personal space or any other matter of decorum. His nose brushed delicately against the curve of Shane’s neck, inhaling the scent rising from there. He didn’t even touch him, yet Shane felt as though his skin were about to boil over.

His shoulders tensed involuntarily, and a shiver ran down his spine. Shane swallowed hard and felt the urge to look away, to flee from those beautiful blue eyes that were simply watching him from such close range.

“You...”

“What? You don’t want to have children with me?”

For a few seconds, Shane imagined himself building a family with Ilya. Three small children playing in the garden, two with dark hair like his own, and a smaller one, a little blonde, a perfect copy of Ilya.

Yes, that felt right.

“Am I not to your liking?” Ilya asked, pulling back just enough so that their faces were once again level. “Because you are certainly to mine.”

Ilya continued, a smile spreading across his face.

Ilya’s hand rose slowly. His fingers brushed against a lock of Shane’s hair, and that simple gesture made Shane hold his breath for an instant. His fingers descended and touched his face the way an artist touches a painting, tracing along his jawline, rising over his cheekbones, and coming to rest upon the freckles scattered across his skin. He touched them with care, almost with reverence.

Soon, his fingers drifted lower still, brushing against his lips. His fingertips pressed lightly as his eyes fixed hungrily upon Shane’s mouth.

“I think our children will be beautiful. Especially if they take after me. Not you, of course.” Shane murmured the words softly almost inaudibly for it was the very first thought that had popped into his head.

Hearing this, Ilya laughed.

“So you do know how to be funny?”

Then, Ilya pulled away. And that mere distance was enough to trigger an instinct deep within Shane, a primal urge to leave his mark upon this man.

Foxes were not typically territorial and certainly not aggressive, yet here he stood, feeling an overwhelming need to claim this man, to mark him so that the whole world would know he had found a mate.

His mate.

“I’ll see you at the altar next week, Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmured as he stepped out through the bathroom door.

Shane felt his face flush instantly.

Apparently, he was actually getting married now.