just a sad narwhal

"Another one, Y/N," Cathy prompted, her voice a calm, relentless metronome. "Deep breath. Reach down for it."

Y/N tried. She tucked her chin, her face turning a deep, frightening crimson as she strained, but halfway through the effort, her body simply gave out. She collapsed back, a thin, broken sob escaping her throat. "I can't... I’m done. I have nothing left. Please... just get her out."

Ilya saw the deterioration—the way her grip on the sheets was loosening, the way her spirit was beginning to fray. He didn’t hesitate. He let go of her leg, nodding for Cathy to take over the bracing, and scrambled up onto the bed behind Y/N.

He sat with his legs spread wide, pulling her entire weight back against his chest. He was a wall of solid, unyielding muscle. He reached around her, his massive hands sliding under her knees to grip her thighs from behind, hauling them upward and back toward her chest. He became her entire support system, his arms providing the mechanical leverage she no longer had the energy to maintain.

"Lean back, zoloto," Ilya grunted, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against her ear. "Stop trying to hold yourself up. That is my job. You just move the baby."

With Ilya acting as her anchor and providing the crushing counter-pressure she needed, Y/N found a final, flickering spark of energy. Shane moved back into position at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on the small circle of hair that was finally staying visible.

"I see her, Y/N!" Shane breathed, his voice cracking. "She’s got hair—so much hair. Give me one more big one, okay?"

The next contraction rolled in like a tidal wave. Y/N didn't fight it this time. She screamed—a raw, soaring sound—and bore down with everything she had left. The baby's head finally emerged, but as the contraction faded, the expected rush of the rest of the body didn't follow.

Cathy’s expression shifted instantly. The encouraging smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, clinical focus. She moved closer, checking the position of the baby’s head, which seemed to be pulled back slightly against Y/N’s skin.

"Wait, Y/N. Stop. Don't push," Cathy said, her voice carrying an edge of absolute authority.

"What is it?" Shane asked, his voice spiking with a raw panic. He was at the foot of the bed, his hands poised, but now they were trembling so hard he had to grip his own wrists. "Cathy, what’s wrong?"

"The baby's shoulder is caught," Cathy explained. "It’s a shoulder dystocia. Y/N, I need you to stay exactly as you are. I have to reach in and manually rotate the baby's shoulder to free it."

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with terror. "Reach in?" she whispered, her voice a broken thread. The idea of more invasive pain after hours of labor sent a wave of primal fear through her. "No... no, I can't. Please."

Ilya tightened his grip on her thighs, his chest a solid, vibrating wall against her back. He was terrified, but he buried it under that layer of Russian steel.

"Look at me, Y/N," Ilya growled, leaning his head down until his cheek was pressed against hers. "Look at Shane. Do not look at anything else. You can do this. She's almost here."

Shane reached out, his fingers brushing Y/N’s knee. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions—the terrifying adrenaline of the complication clashing with the absolute thrill that his daughter’s head was right there, just inches from his hands.

"She’s right here, Y/N," Shane breathed, a single tear tracking through the sweat on his cheek. "I can see her face. She’s so beautiful. Just let Cathy help her. We’re right here. We aren't letting go of you."

Y/N looked from Shane’s desperate, hopeful face to the steady, unyielding strength in Ilya’s eyes. She took a jagged, sobbing breath and nodded once.

"Okay," she rasped. "Okay. Do it."

The room went deathly silent as Cathy worked. Both men watched with bated breath, their knuckles white, their hearts in their throats. Suddenly, Cathy’s shoulders relaxed. "There. She’s clear. Next contraction, Y/N, I want everything you have left."

Cathy looked up at Shane, her hands ready but hovering. "Shane, put your hands here. I want you to be the one to bring her the rest of the way."

Shane froze. The man who had spent his life perfecting his stick-handling and precision passes looked absolutely terrified of his own hands. He stared at the slick, crowning head, then at his palms—the hands that were currently shaking so violently he was afraid he’d fail her. "No... no, Cathy, I—I’m too shaky. I’ll drop her. You do it. Please."

"Shane," Y/N gasped, her eyes snapping open, finding him through the haze of pain. She reached out a trembling hand toward him. "You... got this. I want you to be the first one to hold her."

Ilya squeezed her thighs tighter, his chin resting on top of her head as he looked down at Shane. "You have the best hands in the league, Shane," Ilya growled, his voice rough but anchored.

Shane took a breath that felt like it reached his toes. He centered himself, finding that captain’s focus that usually only appeared on the ice, and reached out. His hands found the warmth of her head, the slippery reality of new life.

With one final, world-altering push, the pressure vanished. Shane felt the wet, sliding rush of tiny shoulders, and then—suddenly—his hands were full of a heavy, wailing, purple-skinned miracle.

"I've got her," Shane sobbed, the tears finally spilling over as he guided the tiny body upward. "I've got you, baby girl. I've got you."

The room seemed to fracture into a million pieces of gold as Shane carefully lowered the baby onto Y/N’s chest. He didn't say a word; he couldn't. He was utterly speechless, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes wide, glazed with a mixture of disbelief and absolute, crushing love. He simply stared at the tiny, squirming form, his hands still hovering near her as if he couldn't quite believe he’d been the one to bring her into the light. He looked like he was witnessing the creation of the world.

Behind Y/N, Ilya was a different kind of storm. He was ecstatic, the tension of the last twenty hours breaking into a flood of raw, unbridled emotion. He pressed his face against Y/N’s damp temple, his voice thick and fast.

"Look at her, zoloto. Look what you did," he whispered, his hands trembling where they still held her. "You are incredible. You are the strongest person I have ever known. Thank you. Thank you for her, Y/N. She is perfect. You are perfect. Bozhe moy, you did it." He couldn't stop moving, his lips brushing her hair, her shoulder, his eyes darting from Y/N's face to the baby's.

Y/N let out a long, shuddering exhale, her arms finally wrapping around the warm, slick weight of her daughter. She looked down at the tiny face—the shock of damp, golden-blonde hair, the perfect little nose that was a mirror of her own—and let out a soft, melodic coo.

"Hi, sweet girl," she whispered, her voice like velvet. "Hi, baby. We've been waiting so long for you."

She looked up then, her eyes swimming with tears but glowing with a fierce, quiet happiness. She looked at Shane, still frozen in his beautiful, silent shock, and then leaned back against Ilya’s chest, meeting his intense, joyful gaze.

"We have a daughter," she murmured, a tired but radiant smile spreading across her face. "Our girl is finally here."

-—-

The adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving a bone-deep, humming exhaustion in its wake. Cathy had finished her checks, pronounced the baby a "perfectly healthy, stubborn little thing," and retreated to the kitchen to give them a moment of privacy.

Y/N was propped up against a mountain of pillows, her blonde hair finally starting to dry into soft, salt-crusted waves. The baby was a warm, heavy weight against her chest, swaddled tightly and smelling of new life.

Shane was sitting on the edge of the mattress, so close his thigh was pressed against Y/N’s hip. He was leaning in, his voice a low, melodic murmur that barely carried across the room. He was looking at the baby, then back at Y/N, his expression intensely serious yet incredibly tender.

"It feels right, doesn't it?" Shane whispered, his thumb tracing the back of Y/N’s hand. "It fits her."

Y/N nodded slowly, a tired but certain smile touching her lips. She looked down at the tiny girl—the mirror image of herself, yet carrying the heavy legacy of the two men beside her. "I agree," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "It’s perfect, Shane. He’s going to..." She trailed off, her eyes shifting toward the door.

The floorboards creaked as Ilya stepped back into the room. He’d clearly tried to pull himself together, his face scrubbed clean and a fresh shirt pulled over his broad shoulders, but the raw, shell-shocked look in his blue eyes remained. He was carrying a tall glass of water, moving with a deliberate, careful grace.

"You need to hydrate," Ilya murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. He handed the glass to Y/N, his fingers lingering against hers for a second longer than necessary.

Y/N took a long sip, the cold water grounding her, before setting the glass on the nightstand. She reached out, catching Ilya’s hand. "Ilya, sit," she said softly, gesturing to the empty space on her other side.

He obeyed instantly, sinking onto the mattress so she was sandwiched between her two men. The second he was settled, he didn't wait for an invitation. He reached over, his massive, scarred hands sliding under the swaddle with surprising gentleness, and lifted the baby from Y/N’s chest. He tucked her against his own heart, his large frame making her look even more impossibly small.

"Shane and I have been talking," Y/N began, her eyes locking onto Ilya’s. "About what we want to call her."

Ilya tilted his head, his expression guarded as he cradled the infant. He looked down at the tiny, blonde girl and let out a huff of a breath. "What," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual sandpaper-dry wit. "She cannot be called 'The Kraken' for her whole life?"

Shane let out a soft, startled laugh, and Y/N smiled, reaching across to rest a steady hand on Ilya’s forearm. "We want to name her Irina," Y/N said, her voice ringing with a quiet, certain strength. "Irina Rozanov-Hollander."

The silence that followed was so heavy it felt physical.

Ilya didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe. The name—his mother's name, a name he had carried like a secret, painful treasure since he was twelve years old—hung in the air. He looked at Shane, then at Y/N, his throat working violently as he tried to find his voice.

"You..." Ilya started, but the word broke into a sharp, jagged exhale. His eyes, usually so fierce and guarded, flooded with hot, stinging tears. "You want to name her for my mother?"

"She has your spirit, Ilya," Y/N whispered, reaching up to cup his jaw with her free hand. "And she’s going to grow up knowing exactly who she was named for."

Ilya buckled, leaning forward to bury his face in the crook of Y/N’s neck while still clutching the baby to his chest, his large shoulders shaking with a choked, muffled sob. He reached out with his free hand, trembling as he covered Shane’s hand on the bed.

"Thank you," he rasped into her skin. "Thank you. I do not... I do not have the words."

After a few moments of quiet, shared tears, Ilya sat back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Shane cleared his throat, his eyes still shimmering with moisture as he looked at the two of them. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing the baby’s swaddle. "But," Shane said, his voice soft but intentional, "she still needs a middle name."

They fell into a thoughtful silence for a long beat. Y/N hummed softly, running through possibilities, while Shane watched them with that focused, quiet devotion of his.

"I think..." Ilya started, a sudden, wicked little glint appearing in his tear-bright eyes. "Jane?"

For a split second, there was a pause. Then, Shane’s eyes went wide, and a massive, sheepish grin broke across his face. Y/N let out a soft, tired laugh, her eyes sparkling.

"Irina Jane," Y/N repeated, the name tasting perfect.

"I hate you," Shane muttered, though he was grinning so hard his cheeks poked his eyes. He reached over and shoved Ilya’s shoulder playfully. "You’re really going to put that on her birth certificate?"

"It is a classic name, Hollander," Ilya said, his trademark smirk returning even as he looked at the baby with more love than he knew how to handle. "And it reminds me of one of my favorite persons to argue with."

Y/N leaned her head against Ilya’s shoulder, her hand still tucked into Shane’s. "Irina Jane Rozanov-Hollander. It’s perfect."

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As the morning sun climbed higher, the contractions turned into something primal. Y/N’s groans shifted into deep, guttural sounds that vibrated through the water. Her body was no longer just tightening; it was getting ready to push, an involuntary force that made her back arch and her teeth grit.

Shane watched her, his face growing paler with every surge. The perfectionist in him—the man who spent hours analyzing game tape to avoid a single mistake—was hitting a wall. He saw her pain, the raw, unshielded reality of it, and a wave of helplessness crashed over him. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too hot. His hands began to shake, the bowl of ice chips rattling with a frantic, metallic sound.

"I... I'll be right back. I'm going to get more ice. Or towels. I'll..." He trailed off, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Before Ilya could even respond, Shane practically bolted toward the kitchen.

Ilya didn't move for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who was lost in the peak of a wave. Once she exhaled and went limp against the side of the pool, Ilya looked toward the kitchen. He saw Shane leaning over the sink, his head hanging low, his shoulders shaking.

Ilya gave Y/N’s shoulder a final, firm squeeze and looked at Cathy, who gave him a knowing nod. He walked into the kitchen, finding Shane gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

Shane turned, his face pale and his eyes swimming with tears. "I can't," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Ilya, she’s in so much pain. I don’t know what to do."

Ilya didn't soften his expression, but he didn't pull away. He stepped closer, invading Shane’s personal space until their foreheads were almost touching.

"You are here," Ilya said, his blue eyes fierce and clinical. "That is what matters."

"But I feel like I'm failing," Shane choked out, shaking his head. "I'm supposed to fix things, and I can't fix this. I'm useless."

"You are being an idiot," Ilya said with his trademark bluntness, his hand moving to grab the back of Shane's neck. "You think she needs you to be a doctor? She has Cathy for that. She needs to see your face when she opens her eyes. She needs to know you are not running away because it is 'too hard' to watch."

He gave Shane’s neck a sharp, bracing shake. "You are strong, Shane. You handle more pressure than anyone I know. Do not fold now when she needs that strength the most."

Shane took a jagged, shuddering breath, the logic of Ilya’s words finally cutting through the fog of his panic. He looked at Ilya and saw the same terror he felt, just buried under a layer of Russian steel.

"Go wash your face," Ilya commanded. "Drink some water. Then come back. We are doing this together."

Shane nodded, a bit of the old captain's steel returning to his spine. He turned to the sink, splashing freezing water over his face until his skin stung. He took a long, deep breath, patted his face dry, and stood up straight.

"Okay," Shane whispered. "Okay. I'm good."

-—-

The living room was thick with the scent of lavender oil and the humid warmth of the birthing pool. Y/N was kneeling in the center, her forehead resting on the cool, inflated rim. The transition was relentless now; Cathy had checked her a short while ago and confirmed she was at 7cm. The "marathon" had turned into a climb up a vertical cliff.

Shane had abandoned his shirt and socks on the rug, stripping down to his shorts to climb into the pool behind her. The warm water swirled around his waist as he sat on his heels, his large, powerful hands splaying across the small of Y/N’s back. He leaned his weight into her with every surge, his muscles bunching as he provided the heavy, steady counter-pressure she craved.

"Right there," Y/N breathed, her fingers digging into the vinyl of the pool. "Don't stop, Shane. Don't move."

"I've got you," Shane whispered, his chest pressed against her back, his skin damp with steam and sweat. "I'm not going anywhere. I’m right here, okay? Focus on my hands."

As the contraction ebbed, Y/N turned her head to the side, her eyes finding Ilya. He was sitting on the floor just outside the pool, his long legs tucked in, his arms resting on the rim so he was eye-level with her. He looked uncharacteristically soft in the dim morning light, his usual sharp edges blunted by the gravity of the room.

"Ilya," she rasped, her voice trembling. "Talk to me. Anything. Just... don't let me think about the next one."

Ilya reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on her damp hair. He wasn't a man of long speeches, but for her, he found the words.

"I was thinking about the first time we saw the scan," he started, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the water. "How you looked at the screen and then at me, and I realized my life was never going to be simple again. And I liked it. I realized then that I didn't want it to be simple if it didn't have you in it."

He let out a short, huffing breath, his thumb tracing the line of her temple as her eyes stayed locked on his. "I have loved watching you grow, Y/N. I know you hate the joggers and the heavy feeling, and the way you walk like a penguin sometimes, but to me... you have never looked better. Every week you got bigger, it was just more of you to love. More of this family. I liked seeing the baby move under your skin; it made it feel real, like we were finally building something that couldn't be traded or sold."

Another wave started to build, her body tensing under Shane's hands, but Ilya didn't stop. He leaned closer, his blue eyes intense, pulling her focus away from the tightening in her gut.

"I think about the winter," he murmured. "When we take them out to the pond for the first time. I will buy the smallest skates they make—custom, because they are our baby. Shane will try to teach them how to play nice and follow the rules, and I will teach them how to actually win. I'll teach them how to get under the other kids' skin just like I did to Shane."

"Hey," Shane grumbled softly from behind her, though he didn't stop the pressure on her back.

Ilya ignored him, his focus entirely on Y/N. "I look forward to the quiet mornings here. Just us. No fans, no reporters, no hockey. Just the three of us and this little person who has no idea how lucky they are to have you as a mother. I want to see you holding them and finally getting to sleep without someone kicking your ribs from the inside. We are so close, zoloto. Just a little more."

Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale, the contraction peaking and then slowly, mercifully, beginning to fade. Ilya’s rambling had worked—for a few minutes, she wasn't a woman in labor; she was just a woman being loved by two men who were ready to give her the world.

"Keep talking," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned toward his touch. "Don't stop. Tell me about the cottage in the summer."

-—-

The humidity in the living room was suddenly broken by a sharp, clinical shift in the air. Cathy, who had been observing Y/N’s vocalizations and the rhythm of her surges, knelt by the side of the pool.

"You're making incredible progress," Cathy said, her voice a calm, grounding anchor. "But I think it’s time to move to the position you actually want to birth in. The place where you're going to meet your daughter."

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, wide and filled with a sudden, sharp anxiety. She looked at the hallway, then back at the water that had been her only sanctuary. "The bedroom," she whispered, her voice fracturing.

Shane moved instantly, his arms sliding under hers to provide the leverage she needed to find her footing. As she rose from the pool, the buoyancy vanished, and the sheer, crushing weight of gravity took over. Ilya was waiting at the edge with a massive, open towel, his large hands immediately locking onto her arms to keep her steady.

The air between the three of them changed the second she stood upright. Shane braced her left side, his shoulder tucked firmly under hers, while Ilya took the right, his grip on her arm unyielding and solid. They shared a single, heavy look over her head—a silent acknowledgment that the long hours of waiting were behind them. This was the final stretch.

Supported entirely by their strength, Y/N made the slow, agonizing trek back to the master bedroom. Each step was a battle against a downward pressure that seemed to increase with every inch they gained. They guided her to the bed, maneuvering her with practiced care until she was settled back against the mountain of pillows.

For a heartbeat, it was just the three of them—a quiet, private pocket of the world. Cathy had lingered back in the living room for a moment to gather the final birth kit and supplies.

But as soon as Y/N's weight hit the mattress, her face transformed. The anxiety shifted into something primal. Her eyes glazed over, her chin tucked into her chest, and her hands gripped the sheets until the fabric groaned.

"Something's different," she gasped, her voice dropping an octave into a guttural, terrifying sound. "Oh god... Shane... Ilya... I can't stop it!"

She let out a low, involuntary grumble, her body arching as her muscles began to work with a force she couldn't control. The sound was unlike anything Shane or Ilya had ever heard. It wasn't a cry of pain; it was a sound of work—relentless and automatic.

Both men froze, stunned into a temporary, wide-eyed silence. Shane’s hand stayed poised mid-air, his heart hammering against his ribs, while Ilya’s grip on the bedpost tightened until the wood creaked. They stared at her, paralyzed.

Shane swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper as he looked toward the open door where Cathy was just entering.

"Cathy..." Shane said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated shock. "Cathy... I think we're pushing?"

Cathy stepped into the room, her presence breaking the spell. She didn't need to be told. She saw the way Y/N was breathing, saw the stunned expressions on the men's faces, and moved into position at the foot of the bed.

"I'm right here," she said, her voice steady and clinical as she snapped on her gloves. "That’s it, Y/N. Don't fight that feeling. If your body wants to push, you follow it."

Ilya blinked, finally shaking off the shock. He reached out and grabbed Y/N’s hand, his knuckles white as she squeezed him, while Shane moved to her other side, bracing her shoulder and pressing his forehead against hers.

"Right here," he breathed, his voice a steady rhythm against her skin. "We’re right here."

The long night was over; the wait was done. In the quiet of the cottage, under the watchful eyes of the two men who loved her most, the real work of bringing their daughter into the world had finally begun.

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"But you've been walking for—"

"Shane! Shane, just call the midwife!" she interrupted, her breath hitching.

Shane didn't argue further. He stepped into the kitchen, his voice a low murmur as the phone began to ring. "Yes, hello? Cathy? It’s Shane... Yeah, it's time.... They're about twelve to fifteen minutes apart, but they’re getting longer."

Back in the living room, Y/N was a caged tiger. She paced from the fireplace to the sectional, her arms wrapped around her middle. Right behind her—never more than six inches away—was Ilya. He followed her every step, his shadow overlapping hers. Every time she turned, he pivoted. Every time she slowed, he stopped, his hands hovering near her shoulders but not quite touching.

"Ilya, stop it," she grumbled, her brow furrowing as she turned at the edge of the rug. "You’re hovering. Go help Shane."

"No," Ilya said simply, his jaw set in that stubborn, immovable way.

"I need space!" She huffed, continuing her march. But as the tell-tale pull of the next contraction began to ripple through her abdomen, she didn't push him away. In fact, as her pace slowed and her knees felt a bit like jelly, she found herself drifting slightly closer to his heat.

She let out a soft, guttural sound and stopped mid-stride. Before she could even reach out, Ilya was there. He didn't ask; he just moved into her space, letting her grab his forearms. His muscles were like iron under her grip, a solid, immovable anchor.

"I'm right here," he whispered, his Russian accent thick and grounding.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers digging into his skin. "I hate that you're right," she panted against his collarbone. "I hate that I want you right here."

Ilya let out a breathy, arrogant little huff—the ghost of a laugh. "I know. It is why I stay. You are very stubborn, but I am more stubborn." He pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes fierce and steady. "Breathe, Y/N. Just breathe."

Across the room, Shane hung up the phone, his face pale but determined. "She's on her way," he called out, his eyes softening as he saw Y/N leaning entirely into Ilya’s strength. "She said forty minutes. How are we doing?"

Y/N didn't answer immediately; she just gripped Ilya tighter as the peak of the wave washed over her, thankful for the "shadow" that refused to leave her side.

Shane didn't wait for a verbal answer. He moved back into the living room, his eyes tracking the way Y/N’s shoulders finally began to drop as the contraction ebbed. He checked the timer on his phone—eleven minutes this time. The gap was shrinking, the rhythm of the night shifting from a slow walk to a steady march.

"Cathy said to try and keep you comfortable, so if you want to keep moving, we keep moving," Shane said, stepping up to her other side. He reached out, his hand sliding under her hair to rest on the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "Forty minutes, Y/N. We can do forty minutes."

Y/N pulled back from Ilya’s neck just enough to breathe, her forehead still resting against his.

Y/N started her circuit again, but after three steps, she felt his presence looming right behind her left shoulder. She stopped and looked back at him. "You're doing it again," she said, gesturing to the space he was occupying. "Ilya, seriously. Sit. You’re making me nervous."

Ilya bristled, his jaw tightening. "I am here to help," he countered, using a thick, defensive accent. "If you trip on the rug, I am the one who catches you. Shane is too slow."

"I heard that!" Shane called from the hallway.

"Sit," Y/N repeated, pointing to the sturdy wooden bench near the window.

With a heavy, reluctant huff, Ilya finally conceded. He sat, though he looked like a coiled spring, his large hands resting on his knees as his eyes tracked her every move like a hawk. Y/N took a sip of the water Shane brought her, the cold liquid grounding her, but the peace was short-lived.

She reached the far edge of the rug when the next pull started—low, deep, and significantly more demanding than the last. She didn't even have time to call out. The second her breath hitched and her body went rigid, Ilya was off the bench.

He didn't just stand; he surged upward the moment the contraction began, meeting her halfway across the room before her knees could even buckle. He caught her instantly, his arms locking around her like a vice, taking her full weight before she could even reach for him.

Shane was there a second later, his hand splaying across her lower back to apply pressure, his other hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers.

"Deep breaths, Y/N," Shane whispered into her ear, his voice a low, rhythmic tether. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like we practiced. You're doing great."

Ilya didn't speak. He just held her, his chin hooked over her shoulder, his body acting as a physical shield against the pain. He was the mountain she leaned on; Shane was the voice that guided her through. Underneath their hands, the life they had created together shifted, oblivious to the frantic hearts of the two men waiting to see its face.

"Okay," Y/N panted as the wave subsided, her grip on Ilya’s shirt finally loosening. "Okay. That was... that was a big one."

"Nine minutes," Shane whispered, looking at the timer.

-—-

The frantic, high-speed energy of the championship win had finally bled away, replaced by the humid, heavy reality of the cottage at midnight. In the living room, the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of the air pump signaled that Shane was deep into his mission. He was on his hands and knees, brow furrowed in concentration as he navigated the clear plastic liner of the birthing pool, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth just like it did when he was lining up a game-winning shot.

In the bedroom, the world felt much smaller and quieter. The only light came from the dim lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm, golden glow over the rumpled linen sheets.

"Stay still, zoloto," Ilya murmured, his voice a low, grounding rasp.

He was standing in front of Y/N, his large, calloused hands surprisingly nimble as he helped her navigate the transition out of her maternity leggings. He moved with a clinical focus that didn't quite hide the slight tremor in his fingers. Every time her body tensed with a lingering aftershock of a contraction, he paused, his palms resting flat against her hips to anchor her until the muscle relaxed.

He pulled a pair of Shane’s softest, oversized cotton joggers up her legs, then reached for one of his own worn-in hoodies.

"I look like a tent," Y/N whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion as she leaned her forehead against his chest.

Ilya didn't laugh. He pulled the fabric down over her frame, then slid his hands underneath the hem, resting them directly against the bare, stretched skin of her stomach. The heat from his palms seemed to radiate straight to her core.

"You look beautiful" Ilya corrected her, his gaze dropping to where his hands met. "You look like the person who is carrying the most important thing in the world."

He went quiet for a moment, his thumbs tracing the curve of her belly. A small, distinct movement—a sharp elbow or a wandering foot—rippled against his hand. Ilya’s eyes widened, a rare, genuine spark of wonder breaking through his usual stoic mask.

"They are so strong," he breathed, his thumb hovering over the spot where the kick had landed. "Like a little defenseman."

Y/N reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck. "Are you scared?"

Ilya looked up, his blue eyes intense and raw. "I am terrified," he admitted with the kind of honesty he only gave to her and Shane. "I have spent my life learning how to hit things and how to win. I do not know how to be... this. But then I feel this movement, and I think..." He swallowed hard, his jaw working. "I am so ready to meet them."

He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the center of her forehead, then moved lower, whispering against the skin of her belly. "Hurry up, little one. Your fathers are very impatient men."

The door creaked open, and Shane leaned in, his face flushed and a stray piece of plastic wrap stuck to his sleeve. He took in the sight of them—the quiet, golden intimacy of the room—and his frantic expression softened into a look of pure, aching love.

"Pool's ready," Shane whispered, walking over to join the circle. He wrapped his arms around both of them, his chin resting on Y/N's shoulder as he looked at Ilya. "Cathy just texted. She’s ten minutes out. This is really happening, guys."

Ilya reached out, grabbing the back of Shane’s neck and pulling him in until their foreheads touched, Y/N held safely between them. "It is happening," Ilya agreed, his voice steady now. "And it is going to be perfect."

-—-

The crunch of gravel in the driveway was followed by the heavy thud of a car door. A moment later, a brisk, familiar knock echoed through the cottage. Shane jumped as if he’d been struck by lightning, nearly tripping over the power cord for the pool pump to get to the front door.

Cathy stepped into the living room, smelling of the cool night air and peppermint. She carried two professional-looking bags, but her presence was anything but clinical. She took in the scene: the inflated birthing pool in the corner, the discarded snacks on the counter, and the two massive professional athletes looking at her with a mix of desperation and awe.

She offered a calm, knowing smile. "Deep breaths, everyone," Cathy said, her voice a warm, grounding melody. "The house hasn't fallen down yet, so I’d say you’re doing just fine."

Y/N was leaning against the back of the sofa, her knuckles white as she breathed through the tail end of a wave. Cathy set her bags down on the dining table but didn't immediately reach for any equipment. Instead, she just watched Y/N for a moment, timing her recovery with a practiced eye.

"Alright, listen to me," Cathy said, pulling out a stool and gesturing for the throuple to gather around. "I’m here to make sure everyone stays safe, but I am not the boss of this room. Y/N, your body knows exactly what to do. You listen to it. If it tells you to move, you move. If it tells you to scream, you scream."

She turned her gaze to Shane and Ilya, her expression turning slightly more stern. "And you two? Your job is to listen to her. Not the books, not the birth plan, and definitely not your own nerves. If she wants you close, you stay. If she tells you to get out of her face, you move. Understood?"

Ilya nodded once, a sharp, military-like gesture, his hand never leaving the small of Y/N’s back. Shane just breathed out a shaky, "Understood."

Cathy moved to perform a quick, quiet check right there in the living room, shielding Y/N with a blanket. The room was silent, the only sound the distant hum of the pool pump. When she pulled back, she began snapping on a fresh pair of gloves and checking her watch.

"You're at 3cm," Cathy announced, her tone gentle but honest.

Shane looked at Ilya, then back at Cathy. "Three? Only three? We’ve been at this since the first period!"

"It’s a marathon, Shane, not a sprint," Cathy reminded him. "The early phase is often the longest. Your body is doing the hard work of softening and preparing. At three centimeters, we’ve still got quite a way to go. This is going to be a long night, so I suggest you boys find a way to pace yourselves."

Y/N let out a long, weary sigh, her head dropping back against Ilya’s shoulder. The "long night" felt like it was already weighing her down, but she felt Ilya’s arm tighten around her waist, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic promise against her side.

"Long night is fine," Ilya muttered, his chin resting on Y/N’s head. "We're not going anywhere."

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"Y/N," he rasped, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, sharp alarm. He began checking over her with a frantic kind of gentleness—touching her forehead to check for fever, then brushing the hair out of her eyes as if he could physically soothe the pain away. "Does it hurt in your back or your front? Should I get the pillow? The heat pack?"

"Ilya, I'm okay," she panted, though her voice was thin and her knuckles were white where she gripped the sofa cushions.

"You are not okay! You are in labor!" Ilya turned his head, shouting toward the hallway where the sound of Shane wrestling with a rubber hose was growing louder. "Shane! Bring the birth ball! And the water! She needs to stay hydrated!"

The cottage, which had been a temple of quiet hockey tension all night, had suddenly turned into a frantic locker room at halftime. Shane was clattering in the kitchen, and Ilya was hovering so closely over Y/N that he was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The double shock of the championship and the kiss, combined with the sudden, violent onset of active labor, finally pushed Y/N’s emotions over the edge —it all felt like it was crashing down at once. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lip began to tremble.

"Stop it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Just... stop."

Shane came back into the room clutching a stack of sterile pads and a random throw pillow. He froze at the sight of her tears. Ilya stopped mid-sentence, his hand still hovering near her face.

"Y/N?" Shane asked, his voice dropping an octave, the frantic edge softening into immediate, heart-wrenching concern.

"I don't want the ball," she sobbed, a single tear tracking down her cheek. "I don't care about the towels or the pool yet. I just... I need you to hold me. Both of you. Please. Just for a minute."

The frantic light in Shane’s eyes vanished instantly. He dropped the supplies onto the rug and sank onto the sofa beside her, wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders and pulling her back against his chest. He was solid and warm, providing the physical anchor she desperately needed. Ilya didn't wait to be told twice; he moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist from his position on the floor, burying his face against her side for a fleeting second before looking up at her with fierce, quiet devotion.

For a moment, they just stayed like that. The three of them held each other in the flickering blue light of the TV, the world of professional hockey and national scandals fading into the background. They were just three people in a cottage, finally letting the reality sink in.

But the peace didn't last long. Y/N’s body stiffened again. She gasped, her fingers digging into Shane’s forearm and Ilya’s shoulder as another contraction began to crest.

"Here we go," she wheezed, her eyes squeezing shut.

Shane immediately reached for his phone on the coffee table, his face set in a look of grim determination. He didn't look at the screen for hockey news this time; he opened the timer app.

"Okay, breathe with me, Y/N," Shane whispered, his eyes locked on the ticking seconds.

As the peak of the contraction passed and Y/N’s muscles began to loosen, the frantic energy in the room finally began to settle into a hushed, focused gravity. Shane leaned back, his eyes moving between the phone and Y/N’s pale face.

"How far apart are they?" Ilya asked softly, his voice finally losing its jagged edge. He reached out to squeeze Y/N’s hand, his gaze shifting to Shane.

"Fifteen minutes," Shane noted, his brow furrowing as he did the math. He looked down at Y/N. "Are they getting stronger? Or just... closer?"

"Stronger," Y/N whispered, leaning her head against Shane’s shoulder.

Ilya looked at the dry rug, then back at Y/N. "Has your water broke?" he asked, his voice genuinely curious.

"No," Y/N answered, her voice steadying. "Not yet."

They sat in the quiet for a moment before Y/N looked toward the sliding glass doors. The night was dark, but the air outside looked still and inviting compared to the sudden, clinical tension of the living room.

"I want to go for a walk," she whispered. "Down to the lake."

"Is that safe?" Shane asked, his protective instincts flaring.

"It’s fine, Shane," Y/N reminded him with a faint smile. "I just need to move. While I still can."

-—-

The grass was cool and damp against their feet as they navigated the gentle slope down to the shoreline. The lake was a sheet of black glass, reflecting the scattered silver of the stars and the dense, dark silhouette of the pines.

They walked in a slow, protective formation. Shane’s hand never left the small of Y/N’s back, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles through the fabric of her shirt. Ilya walked on her other side, his head swiveling like a sentry’s, his eyes adjusted to the dark. The frantic noise of the TV and the chaotic scramble of the living room felt miles away.

As they approached the dock, Y/N’s pace faltered. She felt the familiar, heavy tightening begin—a slow-climbing wave that demanded her full attention.

"Wait," she breathed, her fingers digging into Shane’s forearm.

"I’ve got you," Shane whispered instantly. He stepped in front of her, letting her lean her full weight against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his large hands splaying flat over her heavy, hardened belly. He held her there, providing a solid, unwavering brace, and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to her temple. "Just lean into me, Y/N. I’m right here."

Ilya moved behind her, his large, warm hands pressing firmly into her lower back to provide the counter-pressure she needed. He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath steady and hot against her skin. He didn't say a word, but the way he anchored her—his chest pressed to her back, sandwiching her between him and Shane—made her feel entirely encased in safety.

When the tension finally bled away, Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale. She didn't move away; she stayed tucked between them, the smell of woodsmoke and lake water filling her lungs.

Ilya shifted, sliding one hand from her back around to her front. His fingers met Shane’s over the curve of her stomach. He felt a small, sharp kick from within, and a rare, soft smile broke across his face. He leaned down, pressing a rough, affectionate kiss to the top of her head before turning his gaze out across the water.

He looked at the small island that sat a few hundred yards from their shore. It was little more than a cluster of rock and dark trees, lonely in the center of the lake.

"Look at that island," Ilya said, his voice dropping into that rough, melodic rasp that usually only came out in the deepest parts of the night.

Y/N looked, her head still resting on Shane's shoulder while Ilya’s arms remained looped around her. "It’s beautiful tonight."

Ilya’s grip tightened just a fraction, his thumb tracing the side of her belly. He wasn't a man for grand, poetic speeches—he was a man of direct, bone-deep truths. He looked at the island, then at Shane, then down at Y/N.

"One day," Ilya began, his tone carrying that blunt, arrogant certainty that was so uniquely him.

Shane watched him, his own hand resting protectively over Ilya’s, his eyes soft.

"I am going to fill the whole thing with candles," Ilya continued, his eyes shimmering with a rare, raw vulnerability. "Thousands of them. It will look like the stars fell down onto the water. And when it is glowing so bright you can see it from the moon, I am going to take both of you there. And I am going to propose. Properly."

He shrugged slightly, as if the sheer scale of the gesture were a simple matter of fact. "It is what you deserve. To be seen. To be claimed. Both of you."

The weight of the promise hung in the air, more sacred than any traditional vow. In the silence of the woods, with a baby on the way and the world of hockey still reeling from Scott Hunter’s bravery, the idea of a candlelit island felt less like a dream and more like an inevitable destination.

Shane reached out, his hand moving from Y/N’s stomach to cup Ilya’s jaw, pulling him in for a brief, hard kiss before turning back to Y/N and kissing her forehead. "I think I’d like that," Shane whispered.

"You will like it because I will make it perfect," Ilya countered with a ghost of a smirk, though he didn't look away from the water. He gave Y/N’s belly one last, gentle pat. "But for now, we just get back to the house. It's time to have a baby."

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Ilya snorted, shifting restlessly before standing to pace the rug between the sofa and the stone fireplace. "Destiny doesn't win Cups. Grinding out the neutral zone wins Cups. And Hunter..." Ilya gestured at the screen. "I respect the man, but he's so old. I am surprised he can still see the puck at his age."

"He’s thirty-five, Ilya. Not eighty," Shane reminded him with a smirk, sliding off the sofa to sit on the rug, leaning against Y/N’s legs.

Y/N felt the first real pull then. It started as a dull, heavy ache in her lower back, wrapping around her midsection like a tightening belt. She went perfectly still, fingers frozen over the keys, counting her breaths until it ebbed. Braxton Hicks, she told herself. But she needed space to breathe without being scrutinized. "I think I’m going to move to the kitchen island," she murmured. "The chair is better for my back."

-—-

By the second period, the game was tied 1-1. Ilya had settled into the armchair, while Shane sprawled back on the sofa. In the kitchen, Y/N sat on the high stool at the marble island. She was deep into a paragraph about dopamine receptors and the hippocampus when the second wave hit at 8:32 PM. She gripped the marble edge, knuckles whitening.

-—-

During a commercial break, Ilya moved with quiet, efficient grace into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer for himself and a ginger ale for Shane, then refilled Y/N’s water glass with ice-cold water without being asked. He didn't notice the slight tremor in her hands; his focus was already drifting back to the roar from the living room.

8:53 PM. 9:14 PM. The rhythm was becoming undeniable. Every twenty-one minutes, the world narrowed down to her uterus hardening into stone. She timed them on a scrap of paper hidden under her textbook.

-—-

The final twenty minutes were a war of attrition. The score remained locked at 1-1.

"They’re playing too wide!" Ilya’s voice barked. He was standing inches from the TV now.

"He’s waiting for the lane, Ilya! Just watch!" Shane countered, now standing behind the sofa, gripping the wooden back of it.

In the kitchen, Y/N was no longer typing. This contraction had "teeth," biting into her back and pulling—a searing pressure that made her gasp into her sleeve. 9:35 PM. On the screen, the play exploded. Scott Hunter took a pass, leaned into a slap shot with every ounce of his frame, and buried the puck in the top corner.

"GOAL!" Both men erupted.

Y/N stood up slowly, her legs feeling like lead. She used the island for support, inching her way toward the living room just as the final buzzer sounded. The New York Admirals were the champions.

-—-

The Cup was brought out, gleaming under the arena lights. Y/N stood by the edge of the sectional, watching Scott Hunter finally hoist the trophy for the first time in his long career.

"His first one," Shane whispered, his voice thick with a respect that went beyond hockey.

Then, the families flooded the ice. "Wait," Ilya said, his voice sharpening with confusion. "What is Hunter doing?"

Scott Hunter bypassed his teammates. He skated toward the glass, searching the crowd about ten rows up until his eyes found a man in a denim jacket. Scott gestured, a sharp, insistent motion. The three of them watched, paralyzed, as the man scrambled down and climbed over the glass. As soon as his feet hit the ice, Hunter grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him into a fierce, desperate, and public kiss.

The silence in the cottage was absolute.

Ilya was completely speechless, his eyes wide, his body as still as stone. Shane just stared, his hand falling from his mouth. "Wow," he breathed.

The camera lingered, and the roar of the arena faded into the background of their own internal shock. Ilya's mind raced, reconciling the image on the screen with the rigid world he had lived in since Russia. Shane thought of their own careful masks and the life they shared in the shadows of this cottage. If a legend like Hunter could come out on national television... then maybe a future where they didn't have to hide forever was actually possible. They looked at each other, an unspoken, fragile hope hanging in the air.

But the double shock of the championship and the kiss had left them momentarily sluggish to the world around them. When Y/N let out a sharp, guttural moan, it took a few heartbeats for the sound to register. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the edge of the sectional, her body curling into a tight ball.

The boys snapped their heads toward her, their expressions a chaotic mix of lingering shock from the TV and sudden, sharp alarm.

"Y/N?" Shane asked, his voice shaking. He looked at her, his brain struggling to pivot from the historical moment on the screen to the crisis right in front of him. "Hey—wait, what's happening? Are you... is that a contraction?"

Ilya dropped his beer bottle onto the rug, the liquid forgotten as he moved toward her. He looked at her pained face, his brows knitting together as he realized how long she must have been hiding this. "Now?" he asked, his voice a low, panicked rasp.

Y/N forced a pained, shaky smile through the peak of the contraction, her eyes darting to the screen where the crowd was still reeling from the kiss. "I think Scott Hunter isn't the only one who wants to 'come out' tonight," she panted, clutching the sofa arm as her breath hitched.

For a moment, the gravity of her words hung in the air alongside the image of the celebrating couple on the screen. Shane reached for her hand, his thumb tracing her knuckles as his face shifted from shock to a deepening, protective worry.

"How long, Y/N?" Shane asked, his voice rising with a mixture of awe and building frustration. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since the first period," she managed to squeeze out as the muscle tension finally began to dip. "I didn't want to ruin the game."

"Ruin the game?" Shane’s eyes flared, his hand tightening on hers. "Y/N, you’ve been sitting through contractions for three hours? Alone? Why wouldn't you say something sooner? We were right here." He looked at Ilya, the realization hitting him that this was happening. "The birthing pool—the kit is still in the hall closet. We need to call the midwife now."

Ilya, whose face was still a mask of pale shock, let out a breathy, frantic laugh. He reached out, his large hand hovering over her shoulder as if trying to stabilize the entire room. He looked at the television, where the Admirals were beginning their lap of honor with the Cup, and then back to Y/N.

"Of course," Ilya murmured, his voice trembling with a dark, adrenaline-fueled humor. "Of course she waits until the game is over."

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"It isn't just 'pushing,' Ilya! There are three different things that have to line up at the same time, and I only have two hands!" Shane shot back, popping his head out of the car to glare at the porch.

Ilya let out a short, low huff of pure annoyance. He set his beer down on the railing with a definitive thud and started down the stairs. "Move."

"Ilya, wait, I’m trying to...!" Shane protested, but it was too late. Ilya reached the car and firmly nudged Shane aside with a massive shoulder. He didn't even glance at the manual Shane was trying to hand him. He just gripped the base with the arrogant confidence of a man who didn't believe in instructions.

Shane sighed, defeated, and trudged up the porch steps to take Ilya’s spot next to Y/N. "He’s going to rip the leather," he whispered, leaning his shoulder against hers.

"Five bucks says he doesn't look at the manual once," Y/N giggled, bumping her shoulder against his.

For the first three minutes, Ilya was stoic. By the five-minute mark, the SUV began to rock on its suspension. Ilya was half-cramped in the back seat, his massive frame taking up the entire cabin, his boots kicking out as he tried to find leverage.

"He's starting to sweat," Shane whispered to Y/N, a grin spreading across his face. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hey, Ilya! You're suppose to 'push it until it clicks.' Do you want me to read step two?"

A guttural growl erupted from the car, followed by a sharp, frustrated string of Russian. Ilya emerged for a split second, his hair a wild mess, his face flushed a deep crimson. He glared at the porch, his eyes wild.

"What is this? This is made for children's hands, not men!" He barked several more sentences in Russian before diving back in.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic clack echoed through the driveway. The rocking stopped. After a long beat of silence, Ilya emerged. He was sweating and his shirt was wrinkled, but he stood tall. He marched back up the porch, grabbed his beer, and took a long, triumphant swallow.

"It is in," he growled. "But next time, we will get an easier one."

Y/N let out a stunned, breathless laugh, her face flushing. "Next time? Let’s just get through this one first before you start building a hockey team."

Ilya’s gaze softened as it swept over her prominent bump, a proud, almost proprietary smirk touching his lips. He stepped closer, resting a heavy, warm hand on her stomach.

"I do not care how many seats I must fight," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble. "I already look forward to the next one... and the one after that. You are beautiful like this. I am in no rush for it to end."

Shane let out a soft snort, shaking his head with a look of mock exhaustion. "Unbelievable. Maybe give us five minutes to actually meet this one before you start planning the expansion, big guy."

Despite the teasing, Shane's eyes lingered on the way Ilya’s hand rested protectively over the life they'd made, and he felt a quiet, traitorous surge of agreement—the idea of seeing Y/N this way again, of filling the house with even more of this chaotic love, was a future he was craving.

-—-

The house was silent, wrapped in that heavy, expectant stillness that precedes a storm. Y/N lay on her side at the very edge of the mattress, her body feeling heavy and unfamiliar. In the pale glow of the moon, she watched them—the two men she loved, tangled together in the center of the bed. Ilya’s massive frame was curled behind Shane, one heavy, protective arm draped over Shane’s waist.

Slowly, she peeled herself away from the sheets and retreated to the kitchen. She sat in the dark, pulling her knees up as much as her bump would allow, tracing the grain of the wooden table until the floorboards groaned.

"Can't sleep?" Shane stood in the doorway, squinting against the dark. He moved toward the stove with a tired sigh, the soft click-click-click of the burner sounding like a heartbeat. "Is the little one keeping you up again?"

Before she could answer, the door frame filled with a larger shadow. Ilya. He was at her side in two strides, his hand hovering near her belly. "Are you in pain?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "Is it starting?"

"No," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m fine. Just… go back to bed."

Ilya didn't move. He reached out, his thumb hooking under her chin to tilt her face toward the window. He stared at her for a long beat, his eyes tracking the silver glitter of tears. "You are crying," he said.

Y/N tried to pull away, a shaky breath hitching in her throat. She opened her mouth to offer a hollow excuse—the hormones, the lack of sleep, the heat—but the words died before they could form. She looked at Shane as he set the kettle down, then back to Ilya, who was watching her with a terrifying level of intensity. The silence in the kitchen felt like it was crushing her.

Her bottom lip trembled. She swallowed hard, the back of her throat aching as she fought to keep the dam from breaking. She looked at the nursery door down the hall, then back to her own empty coffee mug, her chest heaving with a sudden, sharp panic.

"I..." she started, then stopped, shaking her head. She gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. "I don't think I can do this," she finally blurted out, the confession sounding like a plea. "I’m still figuring out who I am. I’m terrified I’m going to let you both down. You two are so ready. You're so certain, and I’m just..."

Ilya let out a short, harsh breath. He pulled out the chair next to her and sank into it, the wood groaning. He looked down at his hands—scarred and heavy.

"You think we know how to be parents?" he asked, his voice turning rough. "Y/N, look at me. I am terrified. I am not 'ready.' None of us are."

Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze shifting between them. "But it's not just that. Our careers, the public... Everything about our lives is just... it's too complicated. How is a child supposed to fit into this mess?"

Ilya leaned back, a ghost of a smirk finally breaking through his grim expression. "A little too late to be having second thoughts now," he joked, his voice softening with a protective grit.

Shane finally sat down across from her, reaching out to catch her hand. His grip was steadying, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.

"Our lives are complicated," Shane said softly. "But our careers can be managed, and the public... We aren't going to let you lose yourself. I'm just excited to see you with her. To see who this person is that we've made."

Ilya nodded slowly. "I want to see if she has your eyes," he added, his voice dropping to a low, melodic rumble. "Or Shane’s boringness."

Shane let out a soft, indignant huff, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, looking at the Russian with tired, shining eyes. "You’re an asshole."

Ilya immediately moved his large, calloused hand down to the heavy curve of her bump, splaying his fingers protectively. "Watch your language!"

Shane laughed—a real, genuine sound that broke the last of the tension.

-—-

The blue light of the 'Deep Sea' tank shimmered across the glass, turning the hallway into a watery cavern. Shane stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching a massive shark glide overhead with prehistoric indifference.

Beside him, Hayden was the eye of a very noisy hurricane. His four-year-old twin girls were pressing their foreheads against the glass, his eighteen-month-old boy was trying to make a break for the shark tunnel on shaky legs, and Hayden had the newborn strapped to his chest in a wrap. Despite the chaos, Hayden looked remarkably unfazed.

"I’m telling you, Shane, the secret to the first three months is just survival and service," Hayden said, reaching out a long arm to snag his son by the hood before the toddler could make a dash for it. "Rule number one: Keep Y/N happy. If she wants a specific brand of ice cream at 2:00 AM, you don't ask why. You just drive. You are the butler, the foot massager, and the silent guardian of the nap."

Shane leaned against the railing, a small, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoic mask. "I think I can handle that."

Hayden adjusted the sleeping infant on his chest, casting a quick, wry glance at Shane. "And I guess you have to keep the Russian menace happy, too," Hayden added dryly.

Shane let out a short, dry laugh, recognizing the absolute truth in the jab.

"Look, it’s going to be a total mess. You're going to be covered in fluids you can't identify, and you'll forget what a full night's sleep feels like. But then they do that weird little scrunchy-face thing in their sleep, and you realize you’d burn the whole world down just to keep them napping," Hayden joked, though his eyes softened as he watched his twins marvel at a passing stingray.

He paused, glancing at Shane’s profile. "You’re going to be a good dad, Shane."

"Thanks, Hayden," Shane said, his voice unusually thick. "I needed to hear that."

Hayden’s eyes widened as the twins suddenly bolted toward the gift shop. "Girls! No! Here, hold him!"

Without waiting for a response, Hayden scooped up the heavy, squirming eighteen-month-old and unceremoniously dumped him into Shane’s startled arms. "Don't let him lick anything!" Hayden yelled over his shoulder, already in a dead sprint after the girls.

Shane stood frozen for a second, his arms instinctively locking around the toddler. The boy was warm, smelled faintly of apple juice, and was currently staring up at Shane with wide, curious eyes before deciding to grab a handful of Shane’s expensive jacket.

Shane looked down at the small weight in his arms, then at the chaotic, joyful path his friend was carving through the aquarium. He adjusted his grip, a slow, terrifyingly beautiful realization settling over him.

This was it. The noise, the weight, the constant motion. This was exactly what his future looked like. And as the toddler let out a high-pitched giggle and patted Shane’s cheek with a sticky hand, Shane realized he wasn't afraid of the mess anymore.

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Y/N snorted into her water, nearly choking.

Shane spun around, looking genuinely offended. "Porn? No. It’s a birth video, you idiot. I want to be prepared."

-—-

They huddled together, Y/N sandwiched between them. For the first few minutes, Shane tried to point out the hospital equipment, but as the video progressed into the actual birth, the room went dead silent.

The sounds were the first thing that hit them—the raw, guttural effort of the woman on screen. Shane was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He reached out blindly, grabbing Y/N’s free hand and squeezing it hard. "Oh... wow," he whispered, his voice losing all its edge. "That’s... how does the head even fit?"

Ilya had gone completely still. He was pressed back against the cushions, his face pale. He stared at the screen with a look of horrified respect.

"It is... very," Ilya rumbled, his accent thick. He glanced down at Y/N’s bump—thinking about that one centimeter of progress—and then back at the screen. He blinked slowly. "There is much more... stretching... than I thought."

Y/N looked from Shane’s wide-eyed panic to Ilya’s grim fascination and couldn't help it. She started to laugh, her stomach aching. "You two look like you’ve seen a ghost. Imagine being the one doing it."

"I am never complaining about a bruise again," Shane muttered, reaching over to kill the TV before it got any more graphic. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Okay. No more videos."

Shane tossed the remote onto the coffee table and leaned back, his leg bouncing nervously. "I think we should rethink the 'no drugs' thing. I don't want you to be in that much pain if you don't have to be. It looked... intense."

"It is her choice, Shane," Ilya said, though he was still looking at the blank TV screen with a slight frown. "But I agree. If you feel like you need to, you should take the medicine."

"Actually, I was thinking..," Y/N said, shifting her weight on the cushions. She looked around the warm, familiar room—the soft glow of the lamps and the fire crackling in the grate. "Maybe we don't go to the hospital at all. I want to have the baby here."

Shane’s leg stopped mid-bounce. He blinked, his head tilting as he processed the words. "Here? Like, in the cottage?" His brow furrowed as he looked around the room, making sure he was understanding the scope of what she was saying.

Ilya had gone completely rigid. He looked at the rug, then at the door, then back to Y/N with a look of stunned concern. "In the house? I do not understand. If something goes wrong, the hospital is forty minutes away."

"We wouldn't be alone," Y/N insisted, grabbing both of their hands. "The midwife comes here and brings the medical kit. The hospital just feels so cold. I’m comfortable here. It’s private. I can walk around, I can eat, and I don't have strangers coming in and out every ten minutes."

Shane took a long, slow breath, his eyes trailing from the fireplace to the hallway, then back to Y/N. He didn't look panicked; instead, a flicker of recognition crossed his face. "You know... I actually read an article about this a few weeks ago," he said, his voice dropping into a more thoughtful tone. "About the benefits of home water births. It said that being in your own environment can significantly lower stress hormones for both the mom and the baby. It's supposed to be less of a shock to the system."

He looked around the room again, measuring the space. "If we did it here, we could control everything—the lighting, the temperature."

Ilya rubbed his jaw, his expression shifting from concern to deep contemplation. He glanced at Shane, a small, begrudgingly impressed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I cannot believe I am saying this, but your boringness is sometimes useful."

Ilya turned his full attention back to Y/N, his expression becoming dead serious. He reached out and gripped her hand firmly. "We do it your way," he said, his voice low and direct. "But if the pain is too much, you tell us. We leave for the hospital the second you say so. Understood?"

Shane nodded firmly, squeezing her other hand. "He's right. If you decide at 4 AM that you want every drug they’ve got, we’re out the door in two minutes."

"Deal," Y/N said softly, a wave of genuine relief washing over her.

"Right," Shane said, standing up. "Home birth it is. I’m going to call the midwife and find out what we need to prepare. I'll check the guest room and the tub."

He let out a long breath, finally looking like he had a handle on things. He wasn't frantic anymore, just focused. "I’m going to go grab my laptop and pull up some supply lists." He leaned down, gave her a quick, lingering kiss on the forehead, and headed toward the kitchen.

Ilya didn't get up. Instead, he shifted closer, pulling Y/N back against his chest so she was tucked firmly against him. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, his protective energy finally settling into something calm and grounding.

He stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the aggressive clacking of Shane’s keyboard. Ilya gave a small, dry shake of his head, a ghost of a smirk appearing as he looked down at her.

"It is a good thing we love that boring idiot," he rumbled, his voice low and vibrating against her shoulder.

-—-

A few hours later, the cottage had settled into a rhythmic, focused silence. Y/N was curled up on the sofa in the living room, her laptop resting on her bump as she finished up a research paper. The soft glow of the screen and the low crackle of the dying fire were the only things lighting the room.

In the kitchen, just out of Y/N's direct line of sight, Shane was leaning over the counter, scanning a list of local pediatricians. He didn't hear Ilya approach until a pair of heavy arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a solid chest.

Shane started for a second, then immediately melted into the embrace, letting his head fall back onto Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya buried his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Shane shifted his gaze toward the living room. From their vantage point, they could see Y/N's silhouette—the determined set of her jaw as she typed, the way she subconsciously rubbed the side of her stomach when the baby moved.

"She’s incredible," Shane whispered, his hand coming up to cover Ilya’s. "I was just thinking about how far we've come. I don't know how we got this lucky. To have her... and to have each other."

Ilya squeezed him tighter, his chin resting on Shane’s shoulder. He was a man who had spent most of his life expecting the worst, but looking at the life they had built in this cottage, even he couldn't deny the shift.

"I never had a good family," Ilya said, his voice blunt and stripped of any pretense. "Now I have this. I have her, and I have you. I am excited to see what we have made together."

Shane let out a soft breath, turning slightly in Ilya's arms to face him. He reached up, cupping Ilya’s jaw for a brief, tender second, his eyes bright. "Me too. We’re really doing this."

Ilya leaned in, his gaze dropping to Shane's lips with a sudden, quiet intensity. "Gimme kiss," he rumbled, the command softened by the affection in his eyes.

Shane didn't need to be told twice. He pulled Ilya down for a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like relief and shared promise. They stood there for a long moment, tucked away in their own private corner of the world, watching the woman they loved finish her work before the real journey began.

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"You look like you’re going to the gym," Shane snapped, waving a hand at Ilya’s legs. "Put on the jeans. The dark ones."

Ilya paused, one leg halfway into his joggers. He looked toward the door where Y/N was getting ready. "Y/N is wearing leggings," Ilya pointed out, narrowing his eyes.

"Y/N is eight months pregnant! She's growing a person!" Shane hissed, his face turning a frantic shade of pink. "She's earned the right to wear whatever she wants. You? You're just being difficult. Put on the jeans."

Ilya sighed heavily, the sound of a man who knew he wasn't going to win this specific battle. "Fine. I wear the stiff pants. But if I am in a bad mood during the game, it is your fault."

-—-

By 11:15 AM, Shane was standing by the front door, jingling his keys. He was determined to get to Yuna and David's exactly on time.

"We are late!" Shane called out. "If we don’t leave now, we miss the start!"

Y/N moved into the foyer slowly. She hadn't suspected a thing; as far as she knew, the only plan for the day was to watch the third round of the playoffs with Shane's parents. "Shane, the game doesn't start for two hours. Relax."

"I want to be there early! Pre-game analysis is important!" Shane insisted.

Ilya walked past him, looking much sharper in the dark denim. He went straight for the heavy black bag by the coats and slung it over his shoulder with a practiced grunt.

"The hospital bag, seriously?" Y/N asked, surprised. "We are only going for a game."

"I always bring the bag," Ilya said simply. "I do not trust Hollander’s driving, and I do not trust your timing. If the little one decides she wants to see the playoffs in person, we will be ready."

-—-

The drive to Yuna and David’s was where Ilya really started to enjoy himself. Shane was white-knuckling the steering wheel, looking in the mirrors like he was being followed. Ilya knew Shane was hiding something—he could see the way Shane’s leg was shaking at every red light.

"You drive like an old man, Shane," Ilya remarked, his accent thick and lazy. "Very slow. Very boring."

"I'm being safe, Ilya. Traffic is bad," Shane grunted.

"There is no traffic," Ilya pointed out, gesturing to the empty road. He leaned closer to the center console. "Why are you sweating?"

Y/N laughed. "He's just stressed, Ilya. Leave him alone."

"I think I know why," Ilya said, his eyes glinting with mischief. "He is just very excited to watch Scott Hunter play. He has a little crush, I think. He wants to be at his parents' house early so he does not miss one second of his favorite player."

Shane’s face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed red. "I do not have a crush on Scott Hunter! It’s the playoffs, Ilya! Every game matters!"

"Yes, yes," Ilya teased. "You want to see his 'elite playmaking.' You probably have his jersey under that shirt. That is why you are sweating."

"I am going to kick you out of this car," Shane hissed, focusing intently on the road to avoid Ilya's gaze.

"You are very weird today," Ilya said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing hum.

Shane didn't answer. He just pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Ilya got out of the car and opened the door for Y/N. He gave her his hand to help her out, but he looked at Shane over the roof of the car and winked. He knew something was coming—even if he couldn't put his finger on what Shane was so jittery about—and he was going to make sure Shane felt every bit of the nerves.

Shane took a deep breath, straightened his shirt for the hundredth time, and led the way to the front door. He didn’t use his key; he knocked, his knuckles rapping a frantic, uneven rhythm against the wood.

The door swung open almost instantly. David stood there, wearing a grin he was clearly trying to keep under control. He stepped back to let them in.

"SURPRISE!"

The shout was deafening, filling the entryway and echoing off the high ceilings. Y/N jumped, her hand flying to her stomach, but she wasn't the only one who looked shocked. Beside her, Ilya froze, his eyes going wide as he took in the crowd gathered in the living room.

The house was transformed. Blue, green, and white streamers draped over the furniture, and a massive banner across the mantle read: Welcome Baby Girl. Y/N stood frozen, her eyes darting around the room. There was Yuna, beaming and holding a tray of appetizers; Svetlana, waving with a rare, small smile; and Cassidy, who was already filming the reaction on her phone. Hayden was there too, looking relaxed with his wife and their kids, who were already circling the dessert table.

"Wait..." Y/N breathed, looking from the decorations to the familiar faces. "What is all this?"

"It’s a baby shower!" Shane announced, his voice finally back to its normal pitch, sounding giddy with relief. He looked at Y/N and then at Ilya, beaming. "I wanted it to be a surprise for both of you. I've been planning this for weeks."

Ilya let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter, shaking his head. He looked at the television in the background, where the playoff game was actually humming at a low volume.

"You lied to me," Ilya said, pointing a finger at Shane. "You made me put on the stiff pants. You made me think I was just watching hockey. And it is... a party?"

Yuna rushed forward to wrap Y/N in a careful, warm hug. "Oh, honey! You look wonderful! Come in, come in."

Svetlana walked over, giving Ilya a knowing look and a quick pat on the arm. "You look very sharp in jeans, Ilya. Shane was right to make you change."

Ilya huffed, though he couldn't hide his grin. He finally set the hospital bag down by the door, exhaling a long breath. He watched as Cassidy and Yuna swarmed Y/N with excitement. He looked at Shane, who was finally standing still, looking incredibly proud of himself.

Hayden fought his way through the small crowd, his youngest child perched on his hip. He gave Shane a solid pat on the shoulder. "Nice work, Shane. I wasn't sure you'd be able to keep the secret this long."

Shane laughed, his face still a bit flushed. "You have no idea. I thought for sure one of them would figure it out."

Ilya stepped further into the room, finally relaxing. He glanced at the game on the TV and then back at the room full of their friends and family.

"You are very sneaky, Hollander," Ilya muttered, low enough that only Shane could hear. "I was going to be very mad about the pants. But this is... okay. This is good."

Shane grinned, a real, relieved smile. "Just 'good'?"

"We will see how the food is," Ilya shrugged, though he reached out and squeezed Shane’s shoulder. "Then I will tell you if it is great."

-—-

The living room quickly dissolved into the kind of warm, loud chaos that only happens when family and hockey players mix.

Yuna had wasted no time ushering Y/N to the "throne"—a plush armchair decorated with ribbons—while David and Hayden’s kids began a high-speed game of tag around the coffee table.

The afternoon peaked when Yuna insisted it was time for gifts. Y/N sat in the center of the room, surrounded by piles of pastel-wrapped boxes.

Cassidy sat on the floor beside her, acting as the official "gift recorder," scribbling down who sent what. "Okay, this one is from Svetlana," Cassidy announced, handing a heavy, rectangular box to Y/N.

Inside was a set of incredibly high-quality, hand-knitted wool blankets and a tiny, traditional Russian doll set. "For the nursery," Svetlana said simply. "To remember where she comes from."

Ilya’s expression softened, a rare look of pure warmth crossing his face as he caught Svetlana's eye.

The mood shifted to hilarity when they got to Hayden’s gift: a "Dad Survival Kit" that included noise-canceling headphones, a giant bottle of caffeine pills, and a pair of tiny skates.

"She can't even hold her head up yet, Hayden!" Shane laughed, holding up the miniature skates.

"Training starts early," Hayden shrugged.

As the afternoon light began to fade, the playoff game in the background ended with a loud horn, but for once, neither Shane nor Ilya had been watching the clock. They were too busy watching Y/N pass around a tiny, ruffled dress that Yuna had picked out, the reality of what was coming finally feeling real, celebratory, and—for the first time in months—not stressful at all.

-—-

The drive back from Shane's parents' house was a quiet one, the car filled with the peaceful exhaustion that follows a long day of being loved. By the time they stepped through the front door of their own home, the silence of the cottage felt like a warm blanket.

Shane dropped the keys in the bowl and immediately went to work, dimming the lights and kicking off his dress shoes.

"I think my ankles have officially retired," Y/N sighed, sinking into the couch cushions with a long, relieved exhale.

Shane sat on the edge of the sofa near her knees, finally relaxing. "I really thought you were going to figure it out when I started sweating in the car," Shane admitted, his voice low and tired but happy. "I’ve never been a good liar."

"You are a terrible liar," Ilya agreed. He was sprawled on the sofa next to them, his legs stretched out. He had finally unbuttoned the top button of his jeans. "But you are a good planner. Even if you were very annoying about the schedule."

Shane rolled his eyes, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a five-star review."

The room grew still as the humor faded into something deeper. He reached over, his large hand moving with surprising gentleness as he placed it on the curve of Y/N's stomach. For a moment, they all went still. A small, distinct kick thudded against his palm, followed by a slow roll that shifted her entire midline.

"She is active tonight," Ilya whispered, a look of pure, unshielded awe crossing his face. It was the look he only wore in the quietest hours, away from the world. "Maybe she liked the shouting. Or the cake."

"She’s a Hollander-Rozanov," Shane said softly, leaning forward to place his hand over Ilya’s. "She’s got my charm, but that refusal to sit still is all your stubbornness, Ilya."

"Rozanov-Hollander," Ilya corrected instantly, his voice a low rumble but his eyes dancing with a tired, stubborn mischief.

Shane let out a soft huff of laughter, too exhausted to truly argue. The three of them sat there in the dim glow of the living room lamps—the hockey game long over, the hospital bag sitting ready by the door, and the house filled with the lingering scent of sugar and pine from the party favors. The frantic energy of the morning had completely evaporated, replaced by a heavy, comfortable sense of readiness.

Y/N looked from Shane’s tired, brown eyes to Ilya’s steady, focused gaze. "We're really doing this, aren't we?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet room.

Shane squeezed her foot, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle over her ankle, while Ilya’s hand remained steady and protective on her stomach.

"Yeah," Shane said softly. "We're doing this. And we're ready."

Ilya nodded, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her skin, his expression settled and sure. "As long as I do not have to wear these jeans during the delivery, we will be fine."

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Without a word, Ilya shifted his hand, sliding his large, calloused palm over the taut skin of her bump. A second later, Shane’s hand joined his, his smaller fingers resting just above Ilya’s. They waited in the quiet, their eyes meeting over her body in a rare moment of shared, silent awe.

A sudden, sharp thud resonated against their palms.

"She’s awake," Shane whispered, his voice thick with sleep. A small, lopsided grin broke across his face as another ripple moved under their hands. "That was a solid kick. Definitely a winger."

"She is restless," Ilya rumbled softly, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the spot where the baby’s heel had just poked through. "Like her father."

"Hey, I'm not that bad," Shane murmured, though he didn't take his eyes off the bump. He leaned down, pressing his ear against the side of her belly. "Hey, Kraken. It's Dad. Calm down in there, you’re gonna wake up your mom."

As if in response, a large roll moved from Ilya's side toward Shane’s. Both men let out a soft, breathy laugh. They stayed like that for a long time—two of the most feared competitors in the league, reduced to total, mushy silence by the movements of a tiny person they hadn't even met yet.

Y/N stirred then, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she drifted back to consciousness. The first thing she felt wasn't the ache in her hips or the weight of her body, but the warmth of four hands cradling her.

She opened her eyes to find them both staring at her. They weren't looking at her with the raw, dark hunger of the night before, or the competitive bickering of the afternoon. Their expressions were open, soft, and terrifyingly devoted.

"Good morning," Y/N croaked, her voice dry from sleep.

Ilya leaned in, kissing her forehead before smoothing a stray hair behind her ear. "The Kraken is practicing her power play," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Shane shifted, moving from her belly to tuck his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. "You looked so peaceful," he whispered against her skin. "We didn't want to wake you, but she had other plans."

Y/N looked from one to the other, her heart feeling almost as full as her belly. "How long have you two been staring at me like I’m a science experiment?"

"Not an experiment," Ilya corrected, his hand giving her bump one last, protective squeeze. "A miracle. Now, stay still. Hollander is going to go make coffee, and I am going to make sure you don't try to get out of this bed for at least another hour."

"Wait, why do I have to be the one to get the coffee?" Shane complained, though he was already untangling himself from the sheets with a smile.

"Because," Ilya said, pulling Y/N closer into his side, "I am the one she likes best this morning. Look at her. She is already falling back asleep on me."

Y/N just hummed, closing her eyes and letting the warmth of them anchor her. "He's right, Shane. Coffee. Extra sugar."

-—-

The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the cottage, casting long, golden rectangles across the polished concrete floors. It was a quiet, domestic scene Shane Hollander had spent a decade dreaming about, now centered around a half-finished bassinet in the middle of the living room.

Shane was on his knees, scowling at a metal bracket and a crumpled booklet. "I can't read any of this. Why are the instructions entirely in Russian?"

From the nursery, the sound of a drill stopped. Ilya stepped into the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smirk. "Because it is a superior language, Hollander."

Y/N let out a soft laugh, her hand resting on the high curve of her eight-month bump hidden beneath the thick fabric. "Just wait for your parents, Shane. Your dad will have it fixed in five minutes."

-—-

The peace shattered when tires crunched on the gravel driveway. Shane stood up, brushing the dust off his jeans. "They’re early. My mother must have been doing one-sixty on the highway."

He pulled open the heavy oak door with a welcoming grin. But as the door swung wide, the words died in his throat. His entire body went rigid.

"Hayden," Shane breathed.

The name hit the room like a physical blow. Standing on the porch in a leather jacket and reflective sunglasses was Hayden Pike. He was holding a six-pack, a bright, oblivious grin on his face. Inside, the casual domesticity vanished instantly. A heavy, suffocating stillness swept through the house.

"Surprise, Cap!" Hayden beamed, stepping forward. "I’m seeking asylum. The wife is on a warpath with the kids' summer schedules, and I figured a three-hour drive to see your summer home was a solid escape. You look like you've seen a ghost, buddy. You gonna let me in?"

"Hayden, you can't—I mean—it’s not a good time—" Shane stammered, his heart racing as he tried to physically block the view of the living room.

But Hayden was already sliding past him into the house. He stopped in the center of the open-concept room. "Whoa. Nice place. Very... modern." His eyes landed on Y/N on the couch. "Oh! Hey. Sorry. I didn't know you had... company." He shot a knowing wink at Shane. "So is this her? The mystery girl you've been sneaking out to see for years?"

Before Shane could answer, Ilya stepped out of the nursery, his face hardening into a cold mask. He didn't say a word. He simply walked over to the sofa and stood by Y/N, his presence a silent, looming sentinel.

Hayden’s jaw literally dropped. The six-pack in his hand dipped dangerously low. "Rozanov? What the hell? Shane, what is he doing in your living room?"

"Hayden, listen," Shane said, his voice frantic and dissolving into nonsense. "It’s... the thing is, he’s... we’re—rookie year, we just... it happened. And then the media, they liked the... and we just let it. It’s a whole... situation."

Hayden blinked, looking between the two rivals in total bewilderment. "What are you talking about? You're not making any sense, Shane. Why is Rozanov in your house?"

Shane took a shaky breath, realizing he was sounding like a madman. He gestured to the armchair. "Just... Hayden, please. Sit down."

Hayden sat, though he looked ready to bolt. Ilya and Y/N stayed perfectly quiet, watching Shane.

Shane sat on the edge of the coffee table, leaning forward. "The rivalry? It started in juniors, and we just leaned into it. But the truth is, we started hooking up during our rookie season. It was just... physical, at first. A secret. But a few years into our careers, we realized it was more. We fell in love."

Hayden’s brain seemed to stall. "You’ve been... for ten years? You’ve been dating Ilya Rozanov since you were rookies?"

"Yes," Shane said. "The fights, the interviews—it was all a cover to protect our careers. But then, a few years ago, we met Y/N. And everything changed again. We've been a together ever since."

Hayden looked at Y/N, then at Ilya, who remained as still as a statue, then back to Shane. Hayden’s lip curled slightly as he looked at the Russian. "You? With him? Shane, I’ve seen this guy take cheap shots at you for a decade. I’ve seen him sneer at you in the handshake line. He’s a prick!"

Ilya tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over Hayden with blatant dismissal. "You have a lot of words for a man with zero goals in the playoffs."

"Watch yourself, Rozanov," Hayden snapped.

As the tension peaked, Hayden’s eyes began to wander. He noticed the corners of the coffee table had clear, soft plastic guards on them. His eyes shifted to the kitchen, where a grainy, black-and-white ultrasound photo was pinned to the stainless steel fridge with a hockey-puck magnet. Then, his eyes landed on the pile of plastic in the center of the floor. He walked over, picking up a small, white-painted plastic piece.

Y/N shifted slightly, and for a split second, the heavy wool blanket slipped. The unmistakable, high curve of her eight-month bump was revealed.

Hayden’s finger went up, pointing at her midsection, his voice failing him. "Is... is she... I mean, you guys... what..."

Ilya let out a short, dry huff of a laugh. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Y/N and then back at Hayden with pure, biting amusement. "Surely you have had enough babies of your own by now to know what a pregnant woman looks like."

Hayden didn't even have a comeback. He just turned, walked toward the far end of the sofa, and crashed down into the cushions like his legs had turned to lead. He reached into his six-pack, plucked a bottle, and popped the cap with a shaky hand. He took a long, desperate draw of the beer, staring blankly at the wall.

"Hayden," Shane said, stepping closer, his voice softening. "Look... we weren't exactly planning this. It was a surprise. But we're really excited. She'll be here in a few weeks."

Shane’s expression shifted from panic to a vulnerable, quiet pride as he spoke about her. "We’ve been keeping it quiet. We have to. For the safety of the family. The media, the fans... we don't want Y/N or the baby to be part of that spectacle."

Hayden sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the ticking of the clock as he processed ten years of secrets and a baby girl on the way. He looked at the baby-proofing, the ultrasound, and then at Y/N. Finally, he set the now empty beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up.

He walked over to where Y/N sat—mindful of Ilya’s watchful eye—and extended a hand, his expression softening into something genuine.

"I... I'm Hayden," he said, his voice finally regaining some warmth. "I'm Shane's teammate. And apparently, I'm the last person in the world to know anything about my best friend. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N."

Y/N smiled softly, reaching out to take his hand. Her grip was warm and grounding. "It's nice to finally meet you, Hayden. Shane has told us so much about you."

Hayden looked at their joined hands, then back to the two men. "Ten years," he whispered. Then, he reached down, plucked another bottle from his six-pack, and popped the cap. He took a long, slow draw of the beer. "I think I'm going to need the rest of these."

-—-

Dinner was an exercise in high-tension diplomacy. Shane’s parents had arrived shortly after, and while the table was crowded, the atmosphere was thick. Hayden was unusually quiet, watching the way Ilya helped Y/N adjust her seat and the way Shane’s hand stayed near hers throughout the meal.

As the evening wound down, Hayden stood by the front door, jingling his car keys. Shane stepped out onto the porch with him.

Shane leaned against the railing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Hayden... look. I know this is a lot, but I don't want to lose you, man."

Hayden stopped jingling his keys. "Ten years, Shane. I feel like an idiot for not seeing it. But I saw you today. I saw the way you looked at them," He reached out and gripped Shane’s shoulder, squeezing hard. "I still think Rozanov is a massive prick. But you’re happy. I'm not gonna walk away from my best friend. And besides," he added with a lopsided grin, "I've got four kids, Shane. Including a newborn. If you think you're getting through this without my advice, you're crazier than you are for dating your rival."

He stepped down the porch stairs, pausing at the bottom to look back up at Shane.

"Seriously though, Cap," Hayden said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If that kid comes out with a Russian accent, I’m never letting you live it down."

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"About time, Hollander," Ilya grunted, though his eyes held a rare, warm relief. Y/N just smiled, patting the empty spot on the couch beside her. Shane didn't even stop to change; he just sank into the cushions, letting the familiar quiet of the cottage wash over him. He was home, he was twenty minutes away from his family, and he wasn't leaving again.

-—-

A few days later, Y/N found herself stirring awake from an afternoon nap to the low, frantic rumble of voices coming from the living room. She stayed under the duvet for a moment, listening to the familiar cadence of her two favorite men—except they sounded like they were in the middle of a heated scouting meeting.

She rubbed her eyes and padded down the hallway, stopping just out of sight.

"It is a name for a high-end bottled water, Hollander. Or a yoga mat," Ilya’s voice was flat and unimpressed.

"It’s modern, Ilya! It’s light!" Shane’s voice was rising in that specific pitch it took when he was defending a power-play strategy. "I like Skylar. It’s pretty."

"It is boring," Ilya countered. "She needs a name with history. Something strong. Something that sounds like she could lead an army or write a symphony. Like Ekaterina."

"We live in rural Quebec, not a Tolstoy novel," Shane shot back. "She’ll spend her whole life spelling it for people. What about Madison?"

"No," Ilya growled. "I will not name my daughter after the place where you just lost a series."

Y/N finally leaned against the doorframe, watching them. They were sitting on the floor surrounded by three different baby name books and a legal pad covered in aggressive scribbles. Shane looked like he was ready to drop gloves, and Ilya looked like he was ready to check Shane through the coffee table.

"What about Viktoria?" Ilya tried again. "With a K."

"That sounds like she should be wearing a cape and carrying a sword," Shane argued.

"Exactly! She should have a sword! You want her to be a 'Skylar' and float away in the wind?"

Y/N finally cleared her throat, causing both men to jump. "You know, if you two keep this up, I’m just going to name her after the first thing I see when I leave the hospital. How does 'Exit Sign' sound to you?"

"Y/N," Shane said, looking sheepish as he scrambled to his feet to help her to the couch. "We’re just... brainstorming."

"You’re bickering," she corrected, sinking into the cushions. "And you’ve been doing it for weeks. Every time one of you likes a name, the other one hates it just because he didn't think of it first."

Ilya looked at the pad, then at Shane, his jaw set stubbornly. "He has boring taste."

"And he’s stuck in the eighteenth century," Shane countered.

Y/N reached out, taking both of their hands and pulling them toward her. "New rule: no more books. No more lists. We’re done talking about it."

"So she stays 'The Kraken'?" Ilya asked, referring to his favorite nickname for the baby's kicks.

"For now," Y/N smiled. "We wait until we see her. I bet the second we hold her, we’ll know if she’s a 'Viktoria' or a 'Skylar' or something else entirely. Deal?"

Shane looked at Ilya, who let out a long, begrudging sigh.

"Fine," Ilya muttered. "But if she looks like a Viktoria, I am saying 'I told you so' for the next eighteen years."

"Deal," Shane laughed, finally relaxing and pulling Y/N into his lap. "I can live with those odds."

-—-

The morning sun filtered through the cottage windows, catching the ribbed texture of the forest-green jersey dress Y/N had chosen for comfort. For her, it was a practical choice for her aching back and swollen feet, but for Shane and Ilya, it was a target. Every time she reached for a coffee mug, the fabric pulled tight across the high, hard swell of her eight-month bump, showcasing the way her body had ripened.

Shane was a goner by noon. His needy energy manifested as a constant, restless shadowing; he followed her from the kitchen to the porch, his hand perpetually snagging the hem of her dress.

"I can’t do this all day, Y/N," he whined, his voice breaking as he watched the dress ride up her thighs. "You’re so hot and you're just... walking around like this. Do you have any idea what it’s doing to me?"

"I'm a parade float, Shane. Go sit down," Y/N sighed, her cheeks flushing as she tried to tug the fabric higher to hide the heavy, enlarged curve of her breasts.

Ilya loomed behind her, a silent, touchy shadow. He didn't say anything at first, but his hand found the small of her back, his thumb tracing the dip of her spine before splaying his palm over the side of her belly.

"Let him whine," Ilya rumbled, his voice a low vibration. "He has no discipline. But he’s right—stop hiding what belongs to us."

-—-

As the sun dipped behind the treeline, the tension finally snapped. Y/N was hesitant, her insecurities making her want to curl into a ball. She felt clumsy and vast, convinced their attraction was just post-season adrenaline. When Ilya finally scooped her up to take her to the bedroom, she fought him half-heartedly.

"I’m too heavy, Ilya! Put me down."

"I lift more than you weigh for breakfast," he countered, kicking the bedroom door shut.

Inside the room, the amber lamps were low. As the green dress finally hit the floor, Y/N immediately crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes darting to the floor.

"I’m so big," she whispered. "It can’t be hot. I look like I’m going to pop."

"Look at me," Ilya ordered, gently prying her arms away to expose her to the light. "You see a burden; I see everything I have ever wanted."

Ilya propped Y/N up against a mountain of pillows, showcasing her body before directing Shane to lie flat on his back at the foot of the bed.

"Sit for him," Ilya commanded.

With Ilya’s steadying hands on her hips, Y/N lowered herself to straddle Shane’s face. The positioning was absolute—Shane’s tongue was free to worship her, his nose pressed against the base of her belly. He was starving, his tongue working with a frantic, rhythmic suction. As he worked, Ilya knelt at the side, his hand wrapping around Shane’s length, pumping him with a slow, agonizingly steady friction.

"Please, Ilya," Shane muffled against her skin. "I’m right there."

"Not for you," Ilya grunted, his thumb pressing hard at the base to stall him. "This is for Y/N. Only for her."

The sensation of Shane’s devotion pushed Y/N over the edge, her body shuddering through a sharp climax that left her gasping. But Ilya wasn't finished. He pulled Y/N toward the center of the bed and turned Shane over, forcing him onto his hands and knees.

"Shane, stay right there," Ilya commanded.

Ilya crawled onto the bed behind Shane, but his focus remained entirely on Y/N. He moved forward until he could bury his face in the heavy, aching fullness of Y/N’s chest. He groaned low in his throat, his mouth closing over one sensitive peak, his tongue swirling while his hands kneaded the weight of her breasts.

"He’s been a brat all day," Ilya rumbled against her skin, capturing her mouth in a deep, wet kiss. "Help me get him ready."

While they made out, their tongues tangling in a slow, rhythmic heat, Y/N reached down behind Ilya’s moving form. She found Shane, using her fingers to begin the slow, rhythmic process of opening him up. Shane let out a high, broken wail against the mattress, his face buried in the duvet as Y/N worked her fingers, mimicking the stretch he craved.

"He’s ready," Y/N whispered against Ilya’s lips.

Ilya shifted, gripping Shane’s hips with hands that left bruising marks of possession. Without breaking the kiss with Y/N, Ilya entered Shane. He used his own length to fuck Shane, a slow, punishing stretch that vibrated through the mattress.

The contrast was staggering: Ilya’s upper body was tender, his face lost in the softness of Y/N’s chest as he kissed her breathless, while his lower body was ruthless, driving into Shane with territorial force. Shane reached up, his hand finding Y/N's ass.

"Ilya, please... let me come!" Shane sobbed.

Ilya pulled out of Shane and propped Y/N up at the edge of the bed, her back against the headboard, and entered her with a slow, deep thrust that made her cry out his name.

Shane, desperate for any release, crawled up between her shoulders. He was trembling, his length weeping with the effort of being denied all day. Ilya looked down at the two of them, his eyes dark with the coming storm.

"Y/N, take him," Ilya commanded.

Y/N leaned forward, her heavy breasts swaying as she reached out to guide Shane. She took him into her mouth, her tongue working with a slow, swirling rhythm that sent Shane’s head lolling back against her thighs. Above her, Ilya began to move with a ruthless, bone-deep pace, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her.

The sensory overload was total—the warmth of Shane in her mouth, the rhythmic weight of Ilya inside her, and the sound of both men’s jagged breathing.

The dam finally broke for all of them. Y/N’s internal muscles pulsed around Ilya in a violent, rolling climax just as she felt Shane spend himself in her mouth with a loud, broken wail of relief. Seconds later, Ilya followed, his own release hitting with a silent, bone-deep intensity that left the three of them collapsed in a heap of exhausted limbs and damp skin.

"Still feel too big?" Ilya whispered into her ear, his hand resting over the baby's steady kick.

Y/N shook her head, her hand finding Shane’s damp hair as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. "No," she breathed. "I feel just right."

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In the doorway, a shadow loomed. Ilya was standing there, looking like a giant trapped in a dollhouse. He had been "excluded" from the nursery efforts for the better part of an hour after he’d tried to help by "organizing" the diaper cream into the kitchen pantry and accidentally knocking over a stack of glass bottles.

"I can help with the heavy lifting," Ilya offered, his voice a low rumble. He looked restless, his large hands twitching as if he were itching to grip a hockey stick. "The rocking chair. It looks...a little loose, I think."

"Ilya, the chair is fine," Y/N said, not looking up from a particularly stubborn pair of leggings.

Ilya took a tentative step into the room, reaching for a stack of blankets. "I will fold these."

"No!" Yuna and Y/N said in unison.

Ilya froze, his hand hovering over the fabric.

"Last time you folded the blankets, you creased them so hard they looked like origami cranes, Ilya," Yuna said, gently nudging him toward the door with her spray bottle. "You’re too... high-energy for this right now. You’re getting in the way."

Ilya let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. He looked at the television in the hallway, where the pre-game coverage for the Montreal-New York match was just starting. Shane was there, looking polished and intense, a world away from the domestic chaos of the cottage.

"Shane is about to start," Y/N said, trying to redirect him. "Go. Watch the game. Keep an eye on him for me. If I see you hovering in the mirror while I’m trying to fold, I’m going to get stressed, and that is bad for the baby."

Ilya hesitated, his protective instincts warring with his desire to be obedient. He looked at Yuna, who gave him a sharp, reassuring nod.

"I'll watch her, Ilya," Yuna promised. "I will make her take a water break every ten minutes. Go watch Shane hit people so you can get that restless energy out of your system."

Ilya finally let out a long, heavy sigh. He walked over to Y/N, looming over her just long enough to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of her head. "If you need something moved, you call for me. I do not care if it is a breakaway. I will hear you."

"I know you will," Y/N softened, patting his cheek. "Now go. Tell me if Shane looks like he’s having a good warm-up."

With one last look at the pile of tiny socks—clearly still thinking he could sort them faster—Ilya finally retreated toward the living room. As his heavy footsteps faded, Y/N leaned back against the wall, letting out a breath.

"He's like a bored bear in a cage," Yuna laughed, turning back to the bookshelf. "He doesn't know what to do with himself when he isn't hitting someone on the ice."

-—-

The late morning sun was streaming through the cottage windows, but the air inside was thick with a tension that had been simmering since the first cup of coffee.

It started at 9:00 AM. Y/N was at the stove, her face suddenly twisting into a sharp grimace as she flipped a piece of sourdough. A dull, heavy clench had wrapped around her middle, making her grip the handle of the skillet until her knuckles turned white. Ilya, sitting at the island, had gone still, his eyes tracking the way she held her breath.

By 10:30 AM, they were in the nursery. Y/N reached for a stack of freshly laundered blankets when the pressure returned—stronger, more insistent. She let out a small, sharp gasp, her hand flying to the underside of her bump to support the sudden weight.

"Y/N," Ilya’s voice rumbled, sounding like a low-frequency warning.

"I’m fine, Ilya," she breathed, though her voice was thin. "Just… a lot of movement today."

But by 11:45 AM, the "movement" became impossible to ignore. As she leaned over a bin of tiny socks, her entire abdomen turned into a hard, unyielding dome of muscle. She doubled over slightly, her breath hitching. Ilya was across the room in a blur. He didn't ask; he placed his massive, warm hand directly over her stomach. He went deathly pale. "That is not a kick. It is like stone."

"Ilya, it’s fine, it’s just—"

"No," he interrupted, his face set in a mask of grim determination. He didn't even look at her as he pulled out his phone. He hit Shane’s contact and put the phone to his ear, pacing the small nursery.

-—-

In the visitor’s locker room, Shane’s phone began to vibrate violently on the wooden bench. He saw "Lily" flashing on the screen. His stomach dropped. Ilya never called during practice hours unless it was an emergency.

Without even answering, Shane grabbed the phone and bolted. His skate guards clattered loudly against the concrete floor as he sprinted out of the locker room and into the quiet, deserted hallway. Only when he was away from his teammates did he slide his thumb across the screen.

"What’s wrong?" Shane’s voice was ragged.

"Her stomach is a rock, Hollander," Ilya said, his voice tight. "She says she is fine, but I felt it. I think the baby is coming."

"No, it’s not!" Y/N shouted into the phone. "Shane, tell him! It’s Braxton Hicks. It’s normal!"

"Y/N, maybe Ilya's right," Shane countered, his voice thick with anxiety. "What if it's the real thing? I’m miles away, I can’t—"

"It’s not the real thing! They're not even that painful."

"You were bent over the dresser!" Ilya argued, hovering inches from her. "You gasped!"

"Because it’s uncomfortable, not because I'm having the baby on the rug!"

The three of them went back and forth, the panic rising with every word. Shane was pacing the MSG hallway so fast he was nearly tripping over his own skates. Ilya was gripping the car keys like a lifeline.

"Look, everyone just shut up for a second!" Shane finally barked. "We’re all losing our minds and no one is an expert here. I’m calling my mom. She’ll know what to do. If she says go, you go. No arguments."

Y/N let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Call Yuna."

Shane added his mother to the call. The second Yuna’s warm, steady voice joined the fray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Shane? Don't you have a practice? Is everything okay?"

"Mom, we need you," Shane said quickly. "Y/N is having these... tightenings. Ilya says her stomach is hard as a rock, but she says it’s just Braxton Hicks. We don't know what to do."

"Alright, everyone take a deep breath," Yuna said, her voice instantly soothing. "Y/N, honey, talk to me. Are these feelings coming at regular times, like every five minutes?"

"No," Y/N said, leaning her weight against the dresser while Ilya watched her like a hawk. "They’re random. And they aren't really painful, just... very, very tight."

"And do they stop if you sit down or change what you’re doing?" Yuna asked.

"Yeah. If I sit, it usually relaxes in a minute or two."

Yuna let out a soft, motherly chuckle that made Shane’s shoulders finally drop in New York. "It’s Braxton Hicks, boys. I had them all the time with Shane. It just means her body is getting ready and she’s probably been on her feet too long today."

"You are sure?" Ilya asked, still sounding suspicious.

"I’m sure, Ilya," Yuna reassured him. "It’s perfectly normal. Y/N, you need to go lie on your left side and drink a big glass of water. Shane, go back to your team. You’re going to be a father, but not in the next ten minutes."

A heavy silence of pure relief followed. Shane leaned his forehead against the cold concrete wall, closing his eyes. "Thanks, Mom. Seriously."

"Anytime, honey. Now go play hockey."

Ilya sighed, finally tucking his phone away. He looked at Y/N, his jaw still a bit tight from the adrenaline. "I get the water," he grumbled. "But you are finished with the blankets. We go to the bed now."

-—-

The following two nights in New York were a grueling blur for Shane. The Madison Square Garden crowd was a wall of noise, and despite his desperation to win and get back to the cottage, the bounces just didn't go his way. The Montreal Metros dropped both games in the city, leaving them trailing 3-1 in the series. One more loss, and their season was over.

When Shane finally pulled into the driveway of the cottage in the early hours of the morning, he looked like a man who had been through a war. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, and his shoulders—usually so broad and confident—were slumped under the weight of the defeat.

He didn't even drop his hockey bag in the mudroom. He just dropped it on the porch and walked inside, headed straight for the bedroom.

Shane collapsed onto the edge of the mattress and burying his face in Y/N’s neck. "I’m here," he muffled, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "I hated every second of being in New York. I don't even want to go to the rink tomorrow. I just want to stay in this house."

Ilya leaned against the doorframe, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "The baby is not coming tomorrow, Shane. We have weeks. You are home now."

"I know," Shane said, looking up with bloodshot eyes. "But my head isn't in the game. Maybe I should just call Coach and tell him I'm done."

"Shane Hollander, look at me," Y/N said, cupping his face. "The game is in Montreal. You’re only two hours away, not five hundred miles. You are the Captain, and you aren't a quitter."

"She is right," Ilya added, his hand heavy on Shane’s shoulder. "Go to the rink. Win the game. If she so much as gasps, I will have you off the ice before the whistle blows.”

Shane let out a long, shaky breath, finally letting his guard down as he curled into Y/N’s side. "Two hours away," he whispered, grounding himself in the thought.

"Exactly," Y/N murmured, kissing his temple. "Now sleep. You have a season to save tomorrow."

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Cass pointed a fry at the left monitor where Shane was currently flashing a camera-ready grin. "Does Shane actually spend more time on his hair than you do? Because that looks structurally perfect."

Y/N laughed. "Absolutely. He has an entire shelf of 'texturizing' products. If he runs out of his specific sea-salt spray, it’s a national emergency."

Cass hummed, then pointed her fry at the right screen, where Ilya was staring down a New York Ranger like he was planning their funeral. "And him. The 'Beast of the Northwest.' Does he ever actually... relax? Like, does he sit on the couch and eat chips, or does he just vibrate at a frequency of pure aggression until he falls asleep?"

"He’s actually a huge sap," Y/N admitted, leaning her head back. "He doesn't eat chips—he thinks they're 'empty fuel'—but he will sit there and let me paint his toenails if I’m bored enough. He just grumbles in Russian the whole time. And he's a cuddler. A very heavy, very warm, slightly suffocating cuddler."

"Ilya Rozanov, the cuddler," Cass deadpanned, watching Ilya cross-check someone into the boards on screen. "Yeah, I'm sure his opponents would love to hear that."

The laughter faded into a softer, more reflective silence as they watched the speed of the games. Y/N rested her hand on her stomach, her expression turning distant.

"It’s weird," Y/N said, her voice dropping. She looked down at her lap, her fingers idly twisting a loose thread on her blanket. "Now that the house is quiet and they’re actually gone... I don't know, Cass. I’m starting to get really scared."

Cass set the fries down, her expression turning attentive. "Scared of the birth?"

"Not just that," Y/N admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s the logistics of the 'after.' Right now, we’re in this bubble at the cottage, but once she’s here, the reality hits. Ilya is based in Boston. Shane is in Montreal. And here I am, tucked away in Ottawa. How do we do that with a newborn? Someone is always going to be missing something."

She looked over at Cass, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I look at them on those screens—the 'Golden Boy' and the 'Beast.' The league's biggest rivals. The world isn't exactly built for a family like ours. I’m terrified of what this will do to their careers. What happens when the headlines start? When people realize they aren't just rivals, but they're sharing a life—and a daughter?"

Y/N leaned her head back against the cushion, a heavy sigh escaping her. "I don't want to be the reason they lose the respect they've spent a decade earning. I don’t want them to have to choose between their teams and us because the travel and the scandal become too much."

Cass reached over, taking Y/N’s hand and squeezing it firmly. "Hey. Look at those screens. Those two men would walk through fire for you. They knew the risks, Y/N. They chose this. They chose you."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, watching Ilya deliver a devastating hit on the New York ice while Shane celebrated a goal in San Francisco.

-—-

The first round of the playoffs had left a bitter, lopsided taste in the air. In a crushing Game 7 overtime loss, the Boston Raiders had been eliminated by the New York Admirals, sending Ilya home to the cottage with a dark, simmering gloom. Shane, meanwhile, was riding a high; his Montreal Metros had surged forward, but the adrenaline of the win was clearly warring with the guilt of having to leave again so soon.

They were back at the cottage for a brief forty-eight-hour window, the atmosphere thick and heavy. Ilya was slumped in a leather armchair, staring into the cold fireplace as if he could restart the fire with pure spite. Shane was pacing the length of the rug, his phone buzzing incessantly with playoff logistics.

"We can't keep doing this," Y/N said softly. She was perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands resting on the high peak of her bump. "Ilya, you’re supposed to be in Boston for your exit meetings. Shane, you’re heading back to Montreal in twenty-four hours for the second round. And the baby is coming soon."

The pacing stopped. The staring stopped. Both men looked at her, the reality of their fractured geography finally hitting a breaking point.

"This isn't just about the birth either," Y/N continued, her voice trembling. "If we’re living in three different cities, someone is always going to be missing a first smile, or a first step, or just... dinner. And the press? If the two most famous rival in the league are spotted constantly commuting to the same house in Ottawa, the 'rivalry' won't be the headline anymore. The scandal will be."

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tight. "So...I don't go back to Boston," he shrugged, his voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and a sudden, sharp finality. "My contract is up. I am free agent."

Shane blinked, leaning against the doorframe. "Ilya, you've been the face of that franchise for years. You’re just going to walk?"

"Y/N is right," Ilya said, looking at Y/N with a raw intensity. "Once she is here, it only gets harder. I won't be a ghost in my own daughter's life."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and stifling. Shane began to pace again, but slower this time, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He stopped by the window, looking out at the Ottawa skyline in the distance.

"Wait," Shane murmured, his eyes narrowing as he did the math in his head. "Ilya... what if you didn't leave?"

Ilya looked up. "What are you talking about?"

"The Centaurs," Shane said, turning around, his voice gaining a sudden, electric edge. "They’re a young team. They have the cap space, and God knows they need a veteran center who can actually win a face-off. If you signed here, in Ottawa... you’d be home. Every night. No more private jets. No more missing dinner."

Ilya stared at him, stunned. "People will talk, Shane."

Shane bit his lip, thinking fast. "So we give them a reason. A big, shiny, professional reason. We don't hide the fact that we're spending time together—we just change the why. We start a foundation. Something meaningful. We go from the 'Rivals who hate each other' to the 'Vets who put aside the beef for the good of the community.'"

He moved toward Ilya, his eyes sparking with that bratty, brilliant confidence. "We control the story. If we’re seen at dinner, we’re 'discussing the foundation.' If you’re at the rink with me, we’re 'collaborating on the youth program.' We turn the rivalry into a partnership. It gives us a shield, Ilya. It gives us a reason to be in the same room every single day without anyone suspecting we’re actually sharing a life."

Ilya sat up slowly, the gears turning as he looked from Shane to Y/N. The tension that had been held in his shoulders since the Raiders lost finally seemed to bleed away.

"Ottawa," Ilya murmured, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He looked at Shane with a glimmer of newfound respect. "You are very annoying, Shane... but occasionally, you are almost a genius."

"Almost?" Shane grinned, bumping his shoulder against Ilya’s. "I just solved our commute and our PR crisis in thirty seconds. I think that deserves a 'thank you'."

"I will thank you by checking you into the boards when we play next season," Ilya grumbled, but he reached out, pulling both Shane and Y/N into a tight, grounding embrace. "It is a good plan. We stay here. We stay together."

-—-

The cottage was quiet, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the low, rhythmic hum of the television. On the screen, Shane was a blur of red and white in Montreal, his face set in that mask of "Golden Boy" focus as he fought for a loose puck.

Y/N was buried under a duvet on the sectional, her back propped up by a fortress of pillows. She was determined to be a supportive partner, but Ilya was making focus a physical impossibility. He wasn’t sitting on the sofa; he was on the floor, prowling.

He started slow, his large, calloused hands ghosting over her ankles, then sliding up her calves with agonizing deliberation. "Ilya, stop," Y/N murmured, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Shane’s on the power play. It’s the second period."

"He is always on a power play," Ilya rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating bass that she felt in her marrow. He didn't move his hands away. Instead, they traveled higher, his thumbs hooking into the hem of her soft cotton shorts, tugging at the fabric just enough to let the cool air hit the skin of her thighs before sliding back down.

He leaned in, pressing his face against her knee, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin. He began to trail small, nipping kisses along the inner curve of her thigh, avoiding the center, focusing only on the tender, sensitive edges. Every time she tried to pull away, his grip on her hips tightened, grounding her.

"Ilya, I'm trying to watch..." she gasped, her voice hitching as his mouth moved higher, his hot breath blooming against the thin silk of her underwear.

"Watch, then," he challenged, looking up at her with dark, hooded eyes. He reached out, his hand sliding up her torso, his palm flat and heavy over her heart, feeling it hammer against her ribs. He leaned over her, his lips ghosting over the pulse point in her neck, then her jaw, never quite landing on her mouth. He was teasing her with his proximity, his scent—a mix of expensive cologne and the raw, masculine heat of his skin.

He spent minutes just worshipping the areas around her heat, his tongue dampening the crease of her hips, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her lower belly just beneath the swell of the bump. Y/N’s head thudded back against the pillows, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The game on the screen was a distant roar; the only thing real was the weight of the man between her legs.

"You are so sensitive tonight," Ilya whispered against her skin, his voice thick with possessive pride. "Is it because he is gone? Or because I am here?"

He pulled his phone from his pocket then, the movement sharp and deliberate. He propped it against a stack of books on the coffee table, the lens angled perfectly to capture the spread of her legs and the dark intensity of his face.

"Shane complains that he misses the view," Ilya murmured, his thumb hovering over the screen.

The red recording light flickered to life. The thought of Shane seeing this—opening a message in a locker room to find Ilya's blonde head disappearing between her thighs—sent a jolt of liquid heat straight to her core.

Ilya didn't rush the reveal. He used his teeth to catch the edge of her underwear, pulling the fabric aside millimeter by millimeter. He didn't use his tongue yet; he just looked, his gaze heavy and hungry, letting the camera record the way she was already slick and trembling for him. He exhaled a long, hot cloud of air directly against her, watching her hips give a helpless, involuntary twitch.

"Look at the camera, malyshka," he commanded, his voice a rough, commanding rasp as he finally leaned in to taste her. "Show him how much you like it."

Ilya’s teasing had reached a fever pitch. He wasn't just touching her; he was mapping her. His large, scarred hands—hands that could snap a hockey stick like a twig—were moving over her with the delicacy of a sculptor. He slid his palms up her ribs, his thumbs grazing the undersides of her breasts through her shirt, before his touch drifted back down to the waistband of her shorts. He hooked his fingers into the fabric, tugging it down just an inch, then letting it snap back, over and over, until she was breathless with the anticipation of him finally removing them.

"Ilya, please," she whispered, her voice cracking.

He didn't answer with words. He leaned down, pressing a row of slow, wet kisses along the very top of her inner thigh, right where the skin was softest. He nipped at the flesh with his teeth, leaving a faint, stinging heat that made her hips buck. He moved to the other side, mirroring the torment, his stubble a rough, erotic contrast to her sensitive skin. He was everywhere but where she needed him to be, purposefully avoiding her center while his breath hot-housed her entire lower body.

He didn't pull back. He leaned in harder, his suction becoming more intense, his tongue flicking against the peak of her clit with a punishing, sharp precision. He was drinking her in, his throat working as he swallowed her whimpers. The red light of the phone on the coffee table blinked steadily, recording every jagged breath, every flush of her skin, and every wet, rhythmic sound of his worship.

On the screen, the crowd in Montreal suddenly erupted. The announcer’s voice rose to a fever pitch. “Hollander with the puck! He’s dancing through the slot—he’s got a lane—!”

Y/N’s eyes flew open, blurring as she saw the flash of Shane’s red jersey on the monitor. At that exact moment, Ilya’s tongue delivered a sharp, fluttering lick that sent her over the edge.

The world shattered.

Just as the puck left Shane’s stick and slammed into the back of the net, Y/N’s back arched violently off the sectional. A loud, broken cry tore from her throat, mingling perfectly with the roar of the Montreal crowd pouring through the speakers. Her internal muscles clamped down hard around Ilya’s fingers, her body shaking in a long, agonizingly beautiful release that seemed to pulse in time with the flashing goal light on the screen.

Ilya didn't stop. He held her through the entire collapse, his tongue following the frantic, desperate contractions of her climax, his eyes fixed on her face with a look of raw, terrifying pride.

On the TV, Shane was sliding on one knee, pumping his fist and screaming in triumph, his face a mask of pure adrenaline. He had no idea that at that very second, miles away, the woman he loved was falling apart under the mouth of his greatest rival.

Ilya finally pulled back, his face glistening and flushed, a dark, triumphant smirk tugging at his lips as he looked from the screen back to Y/N’s spent, trembling form. He reached out and tapped the 'stop' button on the recording, his thumb hovering over the 'send' icon.

"Perfect timing," Ilya rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. "He gets his goal. I get mine."

He hit send.

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"I have... finesse," Ilya snapped, though he looked like he was one second away from snapping the oak railing in half with his bare hands.

"You really don't," Y/N chimed in from her chair, popping a strawberry into her mouth. "You guys have been on Step 2 for forty-five minutes. At this rate, she’s going to be eighteen before she has a place to sleep."

Ilya looked up at her, his expression softening instantly. "It is high-quality wood. It requires respect."

"It requires the Allen wrench that Shane is currently sitting on," she pointed out, gesturing to the small L-shaped tool peeking out from under Shane’s thigh.

Shane shifted, yelping slightly as he grabbed the metal tool. "Right. Found it. Okay, Ilya, try again. But gently."

Watching them work together was the best medicine Y/N could have asked for. Ilya’s hands, which only days ago had been clenched into fists in a dark Moscow hallway, were now meticulously trying to tighten tiny screws for his daughter.

Every time Ilya got frustrated, Shane would make a dry comment to settle him down, and every time Shane got too analytical, Ilya would simply use his strength to hold the entire frame steady as if it weighed nothing at all.

"You know," Y/N said, her voice turning soft as she watched Ilya finally slide the mattress support into place. "She’s going to be so spoiled with the two of you."

Ilya stopped what he was doing and looked at the crib, then back at Y/N’s bump. A look of pure, unadulterated peace washed over his face.

"She will have everything," Ilya promised, his voice low and steady.

Shane reached over, giving Ilya’s shoulder a firm squeeze before handing him the next set of screws. "Let's finish the railing, Rosanov. I think Mom is getting bored of the show."

"I'm not bored at all," Y/N laughed, leaning her head back. "Watching two professional hockey players get defeated by IKEA-style instructions is the highlight of my month."

-—-

The late February air held a sharp, lingering chill, but the massive stone fire pit on the cottage patio was roaring, throwing a warm, amber glow over the three of them. They were bundled in thick wool blankets, the only sound the crackle of pine logs and the distant, frozen stillness of the lake.

The playoffs were looming—a storm of travel and adrenaline—but here, for one night, the world was quiet. Ilya was stretched out on the wide cedar bench, his head resting heavily in Y/N’s lap. She was tucked into the corner of the bench, her fingers idly carding through his thick hair, while Shane sat on the other side of her, his boots propped up on the stone edge of the pit.

Ilya reached out, his large hand gently covering Y/N’s stomach, feeling the slow, rolling movement of the baby. "She is restless tonight," he murmured.

"She knows the season is getting serious," Shane joked softly, though his gaze remained on the fire. "She’s getting her game face on."

Ilya didn't laugh. He stared up at the stars, his expression drifting into a soft, uncharacteristic melancholy. "My mother used to say the same thing about me when she was carrying me. She said I was trying to skate before I was even born."

The air between them shifted. Ilya almost never spoke of his family beyond the bitter mentions of his father and Alexei. Shane and Y/N exchanged a brief, quiet look over the top of Ilya’s head, treading lightly as the silence stretched.

"Your mother?" Y/N asked softly, her voice barely a whisper as her hand stilled in his hair. "You've never really talked about her, Ilya."

Ilya’s thumb stuttered against Y/N’s side. He looked down at his hands, his jaw tightening so hard it looked like it might snap. "Her name was Irina."

He took a jagged, shaky breath. "She took too many pills. On purpose. I was twelve years old when I came home from practice and found her in the kitchen. She had finally had enough of the life my father gave her."

The shock was a physical presence on the patio. Shane went completely still, his boots dropping from the edge of the pit, while Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth. They hadn't expected the gravity of it—the image of a twelve-year-old Ilya walking into that scene was devastating.

"Ilya..." Y/N breathed, her eyes filling with immediate heat. "I'm so sorry. We had no idea."

"For a long time, I was ashamed," Ilya confessed, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "In Russia, they do not talk about these things with kindness. They look at a death like hers as a failure of character. I worry people will think she was weak. I worry that our daughter will think she has that 'weakness' in her blood, or that I am made of it, too."

Shane reached over, placing a steady, grounding hand on Ilya’s knee. He chose his words with extreme care. "Ilya, listen. Choosing to leave because the pain is too loud... that isn't weakness."

"She wasn't weak," Y/N added, her voice firm as she took Ilya’s face in her hands. "And the fact that you’re sitting here, a good man, a protector... that’s her victory."

Ilya’s eyes closed, and for the first time, a single tear escaped, carving a path through the stubble on his cheek. He leaned into Y/N’s touch, letting out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he was a boy.

"She would have loved you," he whispered, looking between Y/N and Shane with raw, watery eyes. "Both of you."

He looked back down at Y/N’s bump, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "And this little one... she would have been so excited. She used to sew tiny things for the neighbors' children because she had nothing else to give. She would have stayed up all night just to watch her sleep."

Ilya leaned back, pulling them both a little closer as the fire began to die down. "I want our daughter to know about her. I will tell her the truth when she is old enough, but I will tell her that her grandmother was a hero who fought a war no one could see."

-—-

The living room was quiet, lit only by the flickering blue glow of the television and the dying embers in the fireplace. They were piled onto the oversized sectional—a tangled heap of limbs and laundry. Y/N was leaned back against the cushions, her feet propped up on the coffee table, while Ilya and Shane sat on either side of her, their eyes glued to an out-of-market playoff game.

Ilya had his hand splayed across the high curve of Y/N’s stomach, his touch absentminded until he felt a sharp, rhythmic thumping from within.

He looked down, his brow furrowing with that intense, "Beast" concentration. "She is watching," he rumbled, his voice deep enough to vibrate against Y/N’s side. He leaned down, his face inches from her belly. "You see that, malyshka? The defenseman left the lane open. You never leave the lane open."

Shane let out a dry, amused snort, not taking his eyes off the screen. "She’s not even here yet, Ilya. I don't think she's scouting the blue line yet."

"She must learn early," Ilya insisted, his thumb tracing the spot where a tiny foot was pushing out. "Listen to me, little bird. When you are on the ice, you do not let them breathe. You move them. You make them regret standing in front of your net. This is how you win."

"This is how you get a ten-game suspension," Shane countered, finally turning his head with a smirk. He leaned over, placing his hand over Ilya’s. "Don't listen to the big scary Russian, kid. Your other Dad will teach you how to actually handle the puck. You don't need to 'move' people if you’re fast enough to make them look like they’re standing still. We’re going to work on your edges. Finesse, not force."

Ilya’s lip curled in a mock sneer. "Finesse does not win cups in the corners, Shane. She will have my height. She will be a power forward. She will crush people."

"She’s going to be a center with elite vision," Shane shot back, his eyes dancing. "She’s going to have my hands and my hockey IQ. She isn't going to spend her career in the penalty box because someone breathed on her the wrong way."

"My hockey IQ is very high," Ilya grumbled, leaning his forehead against Y/N’s bump. "And my hands are fine. I have scored more goals than you this month."

"Empty netters don't count, Big Man."

"They all count on the scoreboard!"

Y/N leaned her head back, laughing softly as the two fathers of her child bickered over a girl who was currently more interested in her bladder than a power play. "You two are ridiculous. She’s probably going to want to play the violin or something just to spite you both."

Both men went silent for a beat, looking at her with identical expressions of horror.

"No," Ilya said firmly, looking back at the bump. "No violin. Only skates. I will buy you the best ones in the world. You stay strong, you be good for your Mama, and I will put you in the Cup when we win. You will sit in the silver and we will tell Shane he can look, but he cannot touch."

"In your dreams, Rozanov," Shane laughed, pulling Y/N and, by extension, Ilya closer into a huddle. "We’ll just have to see whose jersey she puts on first."

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Ilya didn't say another word. He shed his heavy overcoat, dropping it onto the bench without a second thought, and took the stairs two at a time. He moved with a predatory grace, silent despite his size, until he reached the master bedroom.

He pushed the door open just an inch. The room was cool and dim, smelling of the lavender candles Y/N liked. She was curled on her side, the duvet pulled up to her chin, her breathing deep and even. Ilya stood in the doorway for a long minute, his broad shoulders sagging as the tension finally drained out of him. He looked at the curve of her hip and the small, visible rise of her stomach under the blankets, and the "Beast" finally looked at peace.

He didn't wake her. He kicked off his boots and crawled onto the bed behind her, fully clothed, wrapping his massive arm around her waist and tucking his face into the crook of her neck.

-—-

An hour later, the sound of a second car pulling into the gravel driveway signaled the arrival of the Captain. Shane walked in looking significantly more put-together than Ilya, though the dark circles under his eyes gave him away.

"Is he here?" Shane asked immediately, glancing at the pile of luggage in the hall.

"Upstairs," Yuna whispered, coming over to give her son a firm hug. "They’re both asleep. He looked like he was ready to tear the door off the hinges to get to her."

Shane let out a tired, relieved laugh. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Shane took a moment to greet his mother properly, grabbing a quick glass of water, but his eyes kept darting toward the ceiling. The pull was too strong. He headed upstairs, his footsteps light on the carpet.

When he entered the room, he found exactly what he expected. Ilya was out cold, his large hand splayed protectively over Y/N’s bump even in sleep. Y/N had shifted in her sleep, her head now resting on Ilya’s bicep.

Shane didn't even bother unpacking. He shed his jacket and jeans, sliding into the bed on Y/N’s other side. As he settled in, Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked, looking from Shane’s tired, smiling face to the heavy arm draped over her middle.

"You're both here," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep.

"We're here," Shane murmured, leaning over to kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her lips.

Ilya shifted behind her, his grip tightening instinctively as he felt her wake. He didn't open his eyes, but he pressed a sleepy, lingering kiss to her shoulder blade. "Home," he grumbled, the word vibrating against her skin. "Stay here forever."

Y/N let out a long, contented sigh, sinking back into the mattress between them. The All-Star break had been a professional peak, but this—the weight of them on either side of her, the silence of the cottage, and the safety of their shared secret—was the only victory that mattered.

-—-

The call had come just as the morning light was beginning to crawl over the frost-covered pines outside. It wasn’t a shock—not really—but that didn't make the finality of it any less of a gut punch. Ilya’s father had been fading for years, his mind slowly being erased by dementia until the man who had taught Ilya how to skate was little more than a ghost inhabiting a hollow shell.

Ilya sat on the edge of the bed in the dim room, the phone still clutched in his hand. He didn't look like a man in mourning; he looked like a man preparing for a war he had already lost once before.

"He is gone," Ilya said, his voice a flat, hollow rasp, "My father."

Y/N moved immediately, sliding across the mattress to press her front against his back, her arms winding around his thick neck. At thirty weeks, the baby was active, and she felt a small, rhythmic kick against Ilya’s spine. "Ilya, I'm so sorry."

"Do not be," he said, turning slightly to look at her. His eyes weren't red from tears; they were sharp with a cold, jagged anxiety. "The man who was my father died three years ago. This... this was just the body catching up. There is no sadness, only the mess he left behind."

He stood up and began to pace the length of the bedroom, his massive frame agitated. "My mother is already gone, so there is no one left in that house to keep the peace. Only Alexei."

He spat the name out like it was poison. Alexei, the brother who had stayed behind. Alexei, who had a wife and a young daughter but spent every ruble Ilya sent on drugs and other women, using his family as a pathetic excuse for his greed.

"He will have his hand out before the casket is even closed," Ilya rumbled. "He has stayed in that house, rotting with bitterness while I sent money for my niece that I know she never saw. He thinks I owe him for 'escaping' while he threw his life away."

Shane appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a somber expression. He had known this day was coming, but he could see the vibrating tension in Ilya’s shoulders. It wasn't grief—it was the fear of being pulled back into the grey, suffocating world he had fought so hard to leave.

"You have to go back," Shane said quietly. "If you don't, you'll never hear the end of it. The Russian media, the rest of the family... it’ll follow you back here."

"I know," Ilya snapped, though the bite wasn't directed at Shane. He stopped pacing and looked at Y/N, his gaze dropping to her prominent bump. "But I do not want to go there. That house is full of shadows and a brother who hates my breath. To leave you now, when you are so close to the end—"

"I’ll be okay," Y/N promised, standing up to meet him. She took his large, trembling hands in hers. "Shane will be here. Yuna is a phone call away. You go, you handle Alexei, you bury your father, and you come home."

Ilya pulled her into him, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled the scent of her—lavender and home—trying to anchor himself before he had to cross an ocean and return to a version of himself he despised.

"I am afraid," Ilya confessed into her skin, his voice so low only she could hear. "Not of the death. I am afraid that when I see Alexei, I will become the Beast everyone thinks I am. I do not want to bring that man back to this house."

"You won't," she whispered, her fingers stroking the nape of his neck.

-—-

The apartment was thick with the suffocating silence of a wake, broken only by the low, rhythmic murmur of Russian from the other room. Ilya had reached his breaking point. The walls felt like they were leaning in, the weight of the "Beast" persona he had to maintain in his homeland pressing against his ribs.

Needing oxygen, Ilya stood abruptly and retreated into the dim, narrow hallway near the back of the apartment. He leaned his forehead against the cool, peeling wallpaper, eyes shut, trying to summon the image of the cottage.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice was a jagged rasp. Ilya opened his eyes to see Alexei blocking the exit. His brother looked hollowed out—skin sallow, eyes pin-pricked and frantic.

"I am here to bury our father, Alexei," Ilya said, his Russian deep and vibrating with a warning.

"Our father?" Alexei stepped into Ilya’s personal space, poking a hard finger into his chest. "You weren't here. I sat in the stink of this room while he forgot my name. You just sent 'guilt money' from America. Well, it’s not enough. I have a wife crying and a daughter who needs shoes."

"I sent you enough for ten pairs of shoes every month," Ilya snapped back in Russian, his patience finally shattering. "Where did it go? Into your veins? Your daughter is wearing a coat two sizes too small while you can barely stand up straight."

Alexei’s face contorted. "You think you're better than me?" He swung—a desperate, clumsy punch.

The physical contact ignited the "Beast." Ilya caught the fist in his palm with a sickening smack. He twisted, slamming Alexei back against the wall, his forearm crushing Alexei’s throat. Ilya’s fist was cocked back, his knuckles white, his eyes seeing nothing but the man who had squandered everything. He was a split second away from shattering his brother’s face.

"Ilya. Enough."

Svetlana appeared at the end of the hallway. She didn't shout, but her Russian was sharp and authoritative.

Ilya didn't move. His chest heaved against Alexei's, his fist still hovering, vibrating with the urge to strike. Svetlana stepped into the narrow space, placing a firm, steady hand on Ilya’s cocked arm before he could follow through. "Let him go," she commanded. "He is not worth the stain on your hands."

Ilya’s eyes remained locked on Alexei’s terrified face for a long, agonizing heartbeat. Slowly, he loosened his grip, shoving Alexei away with a grunt of pure disgust.

"No more money," Ilya growled, the decision finally solidifying as he glared at his brother. "I am setting up a trust for your daughter. I will pay her school. You can have the apartment. But you? You are a ghost, Alexei. And I am done feeding you."

Alexei let out a bitter, choking sound, looking between Ilya’s fury and Svetlana’s cold gaze. Realizing the well had finally run dry, he spat on the floor in a final act of defiance and stumbled past them, disappearing out the back door of the apartment.

The hallway fell into a heavy, ringing silence. Ilya’s hands were still shaking. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

Svetlana knelt beside him. She didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, she placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice dropping to a low, grounding anchor.

"Look at me," she said in their shared tongue. "He is gone. Let him go."

Ilya looked up, his expression raw and exhausted. "I almost killed him, Svetlana. I felt it. I wanted to."

"But you didn't," she reminded him firmly. "Because you are not him. He wants you to be the monster so he can feel like the victim, but you have a life waiting for you that he cannot even imagine. You have people across the ocean who are waiting for you to come back—people who see you for who you truly are."

She reached out, cupping his face with a mother’s tenderness. "You have partners who looks at you like you are the sun, and a child who needs the man I see right now—the one who chose to let go. That is your truth. Not this place. Not him."

Ilya leaned into her touch, a single, shaky breath escaping him. The red mist finally cleared, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief and profound gratitude for the woman who had protected his soul when he was too tired to do it himself.

"I love you, Svetlana," he murmured in their shared tongue, the words thick with emotion. "I do not know what I would be without you. I would be lost."

Svetlana offered him a small, rare smile, her eyes shimmering. "You would never be lost, Ilya. You just needed to be reminded of the way home."

She helped him stand, smoothing the lapels of his black suit one last time, erasing the evidence of the struggle. Ilya adjusted his coat, took one final look at the shadows of the hallway, and walked out the front door toward the car that would take him back to his real life.

-—-

The silence of the cottage was absolute until the low rumble of a car engine vibrated through the floorboards. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of cinnamon and the woodstove. Y/N was curled on the sofa, her hand resting on the peak of her thirty-week bump, while Shane was in the kitchen, mindlessly scrolling through his phone while waiting for the kettle to whistle.

When the front door opened, it didn't swing with the usual aggressive force. It opened slowly, almost tentatively.

Ilya stood in the entryway, his black overcoat still dusted with the remnants of a Moscow winter. He looked haggard—his hair was a mess, his jaw was heavy with dark stubble, and his eyes carried a thousand-yard stare that made him look like he’d been to war and back.

He didn't say a word. He just dropped his duffel bag on the rug and stood there, breathing in the scent of the house.

Shane was the first to reach him. He didn't ask about the funeral or Alexei; he just stepped into Ilya’s space and gripped the back of his neck, pulling their foreheads together for a long, grounding moment. "You're back," Shane whispered. "We've got you."

Ilya gripped Shane’s forearm, his fingers digging in tight as if to confirm he was actually standing on American soil. He gave a single, stiff nod before his eyes drifted past Shane toward the living room.

Y/N was already struggling to stand, her movements slow and heavy. Ilya was across the room in three strides, his large hands reaching out to steady her before she could even find her footing. He didn't kiss her immediately; he just sank to his knees in front of her, burying his face against the soft fabric covering her stomach.

His massive shoulders began to shake. It wasn't a loud sob, just the silent, violent release of the tension he’d been holding since he touched down in Russia. He felt the baby kick against his cheek—a sharp, insistent greeting—and a broken, wet laugh escaped him.

"I am home," he rasped, his voice muffled by her clothes. "I am home."

Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, her tears dripping onto his shoulders. "I know, Ilya. You’re safe. We’re right here."

Shane walked over and sat on the edge of the sofa, placing a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, completing the circle. For a long time, no one spoke. They just sat in the fading Tuesday light, the "Beast" finally quieted, the shadows of Moscow and Alexei’s bitter eyes miles and miles away.

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