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Hangover didn't even begin to cover it.

The only mercy in his miserable existence was the cool kiss of the pillow against his cheek and the blessed, precious silence.

"Shane!"

"Fuck…" The word scraped out of his throat as Rose yanked the pillow from his face, flooding his world with cruel, stabbing sunlight. He winced, throwing an arm over his eyes. She was impossibly chipper, practically bouncing, for someone who'd dragged him to his first concert last night and enabled every terrible decision that followed. Sure, he'd had the time of his life, but his splitting headache and Rose's piercing voice made it impossible to express any gratitude right now.

"You need to see this," she said, shoving her phone in his face with the kind of manic energy that suggested she'd already had three cups of coffee. "You're viral."

Shane cracked one eye open, squinting at the screen. The video was shaky, thirty seconds captured in the pulsing lights of the concert—and there he was, larger than life on the Jumbotron, looking absolutely wrecked, his glasses sliding down his face and freckles standing out against his flushed cheeks, swaying to the Spanish lyrics as they took him away like he didn't have a care in the world.

He looked like an idiot. A drunk, happy idiot.

"Oh god," Shane groaned, letting his arm drop back over his face. "Please tell me that's not—"

"Three million views and counting," Rose interrupted gleefully. "The caption says 'TikTok do your thing, who is this beautiful drunk man in glasses?' There are like fifty thousand comments trying to track you down."

Shane's stomach lurched. He sat up too fast, immediately regretting it as the room tilted sideways. "Rose, please tell me you're joking."

"I wish I were." Rose flopped onto the bed beside him, scrolling through the comments with undisguised glee. "Look at this one, 'I need him biblically.' And this one says 'find him so I can wife him up immediately.'"

Shane felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the hangover. "This is a nightmare."

"Rose, this is actually a nightmare," Shane repeated, more firmly this time. He grabbed the phone from her hands, scrolling through the comments with mounting horror. "Who even posted this?"

"Some guy named Ilya," Rose said, leaning over his shoulder. "Gorgeous Russian guy, if the profile pic is anything to go by. He's got like two million followers."

Shane's thumb hovered over the profile picture, and against his better judgment, he tapped it. The screen filled with a photo of a man who could only be described as unfairly attractive, with a sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and a smile that probably got him whatever he wanted. Shane's stomach did a weird flip that definitely wasn't just the hangover.

"This is insane," Shane muttered, clicking through to Ilya's profile. It was a mix of concert videos, thirst traps, and what looked like professional hockey content. "He's a hockey player?"

"Apparently," Rose said, peering at the screen. "And he wants to find you. So what are you going to do about it?"

Shane's finger hovered over the 'Comment' button, his heart doing something stupid and fluttery in his chest. The rational part of his brain, the part that usually kept him safe and predictable, screamed at him to delete the app and pretend this never happened. But there was another part, emboldened by last night's recklessness, that whispered why not?

Before Shane could make a decision, Rose plucked the phone back from his hands.

"Absolutely not," she said, holding it out of reach. "I know that look. You're about to spiral into your whole 'I'm being safe and boring' routine."

"I'm not being boring," Shane protested weakly, though even he didn't believe it. "I'm being sensible. This guy has two million followers, Rose. He probably posts stuff like this all the time. It's not, it doesn't mean anything."

"Or," Rose countered, settling cross-legged on the bed with his phone clutched protectively to her chest, "it means exactly what it looks like. A hot guy saw you at a concert, thought you were cute, and wants to find you. When was the last time something like this happened to you?"

"Never," Shane admitted, rubbing his temples. "Which is exactly why this is suspicious."

"Oh my god." Rose threw a pillow at him. "You're impossible. Last night you were dancing like nobody was watching, which, ironically, three million people now are, and today you're back to being scared of your own shadow."

Shane caught the pillow, hugging it to his chest. "That was different. I was drunk."

"Exactly! Drunk Shane is fun. Drunk Shane takes chances. Drunk Shane would absolutely slide into this guy's DMs."

"Drunk Shane also can't be trusted to make good decisions," Shane pointed out, though his argument was losing steam. He couldn't stop thinking about Ilya's profile picture, that devastating smile, the caption asking TikTok to help find him.

Rose's expression softened. She reached over and squeezed his hand. "Look, I get it. This is scary and weird and completely outside your comfort zone. But when are you going to let yourself have something good? Something spontaneous?"

"What if he's not actually interested?" Shane asked quietly, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at him since he'd seen the video. "What if this is just... content for him?"

"Then you'll know," Rose said simply. "And yeah, it might sting for a bit, but at least you'll have tried. Besides, you saw the comments. Half of TikTok wants to marry you based on a ten-second clip. Even if this Ilya guy turns out to be a dud, your options are pretty wide open right now."

Shane couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. "That's not as reassuring as you think it is."

"Come on," Rose cajoled, pulling up the video again. "Look at the way he captioned it. 'TikTok do your thing', that's not just casual content posting. That's a man on a mission. And look—" she scrolled to Ilya's most recent post, "he commented on his own video two hours ago asking if anyone's found you yet."

Shane's heart did that stupid flutter again as he read the comment: Still looking for mystery man in glasses. Someone tell me he is real and not just beautiful hallucination 😭

"He called you beautiful," Rose said smugly. "Twice."

"He could mean anyone—"

"Shane Hollander, I swear to god, if you don't at least comment on that video in the next five minutes, I'm going to do it for you. And I will make it so embarrassing that you'll have no choice but to follow up with something normal just to save face."

Shane stared at her, trying to determine if she was bluffing. The mischievous glint in her eyes suggested she absolutely was not.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." Rose held up the phone, her thumb hovering over the comment box. "I'm thinking something like 'Hi, I'm the drunk glasses guy, please take me on a date so I can stop my friend from embarrassing me further.'"

"That's terrible," Shane said, lunging for the phone.

Rose danced away, laughing. "Then write something better! Come on, Shane. What's the worst that could happen?"

Shane sat back, his mind racing through all the possible worst-case scenarios. Humiliation, rejection, becoming a meme—but underneath all that anxiety was something else. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.

"Fine," he said finally, holding out his hand for the phone. "But I'm doing it my way."

Rose's face lit up as she handed it over. "Yes! Okay, what are you going to say?"

Shane's fingers trembled slightly as he opened the comment section and selected reply. His heart hammered against his ribs as he typed, deleted, and typed again. Finally, he settled on something that felt authentically him, nervous, self-deprecating, but honest.

Well, this is mortifying. But hi, My name is Shane, I'm the guy from the video. Promise I'm slightly more articulate when not completely hammered. Thanks for the ego boost, I guess?

His thumb hovered over the 'Post' button for what felt like an eternity.

"Do it," Rose whispered, like she was watching a high-stakes heist movie. "Don't think, just post."

Shane closed his eyes and tapped the button before he could change his mind. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

The comment posted. Shane immediately wanted to delete it, but Rose had already snatched the phone back, squealing with delight.

"Perfect! Oh my god, that was perfect. Now we wait." She refreshed the page obsessively, her eyes glued to the screen.

Shane flopped back onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. "I can't believe I just did that. Rose, what have you made me do?"

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" Rose's voice pitched higher with each repetition. "Shane. SHANE. He replied."

Shane's stomach dropped. He sat up so fast his vision blurred at the edges. "What? Already? It's been like thirty seconds—"

"Look!" Rose shoved the phone in his face, her hands actually shaking with excitement.

There, beneath Shane's comment, was Ilya's response, posted mere seconds ago:

Articulate is overrated. You looked perfect exactly as you were. Can I take you for coffee and see if you are real person? My DMs are open.

Shane's heart stopped, then started again at double speed. He stared at the words, reading them over and over until they blurred together. You looked perfect exactly as you were. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him before—certainly not a devastatingly attractive Russian hockey player with two million followers.

"He wants to take you to coffee," Rose breathed, gripping Shane's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Shane. He wants to take you to coffee."

"I can read," Shane managed, though his voice came out strangled. His fingers felt numb as he took the phone back, staring at Ilya's comment like it might disappear if he looked away. "This is... this is actually happening."

All of a sudden, the throbbing in his temples faded as he thought about his hypothetical date.

Shane's hands were still trembling as he navigated to Ilya's profile, his thumb hovering over the message button. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to Rose. "I'm going to message him. I'm actually going to do this."

Rose made a noise somewhere between a squeal and a gasp, bouncing on the bed with enough force to make Shane's headache pulse in warning. "Yes! What are you going to say? Keep it cool, but not too cool. Interested, but not desperate. You know what, just be yourself—drunk you was doing great."

"Drunk me got us into this mess," Shane muttered, but he was already typing, deleting, typing again. Finally, he settled on something simple: Coffee sounds good. When and where?

He hit send before he could second guess himself, then immediately tossed the phone onto the bed like it had burned him. "Oh god, was that too eager? Should I have played it cooler?"

"Are you kidding? That was perfect," Rose assured him, diving for the phone to watch for a response. "Direct, confident, no games. Drunk Shane energy without the actual drunk part."

The typing indicator appeared almost instantly, three little dots that made Shane's pulse spike. Within seconds, Ilya's response popped up: Tomorrow? 2pm? There's café near venue from last night. I'll be the one who cannot stop smiling like fool because I finally find you. Wear the glasses again, yes? They drive me crazy.

Shane read the message three times, his cheeks heating with each pass. "He wants me to wear the glasses," he said weakly, looking up at Rose with wide eyes. "Rose, I think he's actually flirting with me."

Rose let out a victorious whoop loud enough to make Shane wince. "Of course he's flirting with you! I told you this was real!" She grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're going on a date with a hot Russian guy who thinks your glasses are sexy. This is the best thing that's ever happened to you."

Shane couldn't argue with that, even as his anxiety tried to compile a list of everything that could go wrong. Instead, he took his phone back and typed out a response with surprisingly steady fingers: Tomorrow at 2 works. I'll bring the glasses. See you there.

Ilya Rozanov sat in his hotel room, phone clutched in both hands, staring at the screen like it held the secrets of the universe. His heart was pounding, actually pounding, in a way it hadn't since his first professional game.

This was ridiculous.

He was a grown man, not some teenager with a crush, but there it was on his screen: a comment from the mystery man himself.

Well, this is mortifying. But hi, my name is Shane, I'm the guy from the video. Promise I'm slightly more articulate when not completely hammered. Thanks for the ego boost, I guess?

"SVETLANA!" Ilya shouted, loud enough that he was definitely disturbing whoever had the neighboring room. He didn't care. He shot up from the bed, pumping his fist in the air like he'd just scored the winning goal. "Steva, he is real! He found me!"

The bathroom door flew open, and Svetlana emerged, toothbrush still in her mouth, eyes wide. "What? Who found you? Are you having stroke?"

"What, stroke? No—the guy! Mystery man from concert!" Ilya shoved his phone at her, practically vibrating with excitement. "He comment on video. I told you he was real, not just beautiful dream."

Svetlana squinted at the screen, then her face broke into a grin around her toothbrush. She held up one finger, disappeared back into the bathroom, and returned thirty seconds later, mint-fresh and ready to interrogate. "Show me everything. What did he say? What are you going to say back?"

"Already replied," Ilya said, waving his hand dismissively. "I ask him to coffee. Is perfect plan—simple, direct. Why waste time playing games? Is not cool?"

"Ilya." Svetlana grabbed his shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. "You posted a video asking three million people to help you find this man. The time for playing it cool was approximately never. What did he say?"

Ilya checked his messages, and a triumphant grin spread across his face when he saw the response. Coffee sounds good. When and where?

"Vot. He said yes," Ilya said, showing Svetlana the screen with unmistakable satisfaction. "Of course he said yes. Now I tell him where, when. Tomorrow, 2 PM. Easy."

"Look at you, so confident," Svetlana said, rolling her eyes. "Just pick somewhere simple. Make it easy. And for love of god, be yourself, that's who he said yes to."

Ilya was already typing, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he composed a response about the café near the venue, tomorrow at 2 PM. He added the part about the glasses without hesitation—it was bold, direct, exactly what he wanted to say.

"The glasses thing is good," Svetlana said, reading over his shoulder and nodding approvingly. "Specific, personal, flirty. Send it."

Ilya hit send with zero hesitation, then flopped back onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. "Tomorrow I meet him. Finally see if he is as perfect in person as he looks in video." He grinned at the ceiling. "Spoiler, I think he will be."

"You've never been boring a day in your life," Svetlana said, settling beside him on the bed. "Annoying? Absolutely. Dramatic? Without question. But never boring." She poked him in the ribs. "Besides, you saw him at the concert. He was having the time of his life, completely lost in the music. That's not a boring person."

"He was drunk," Ilya pointed out, though he was smiling at the memory. "Maybe sober him is completely different."

"Then you'll find out tomorrow," Svetlana said simply. "Either way, you're going to show up, be your charming self, and see what happens. Worst case scenario? You have an awkward coffee and a funny story. Best case?" She waggled her eyebrows. "You get to kiss the pretty boy in glasses."

Ilya felt his cheeks heat. "What, kissing?" Ilya scoffed, waving his hand dismissively, though his grin was pure mischief. "Of course I think about kissing him. I see beautiful man, I think about kissing. Is natural, no? I am Russian, not priest." He leaned back with casual confidence. "Besides, screen, real life, what is difference? I know what I want when I see it."

"Sure," Svetlana said, clearly not believing him for a second. "That's why you've watched that video approximately four hundred times since last night."

"It's good video," Ilya defended weakly, but he was grinning now, his earlier nerves settling into something more like anticipation. Tomorrow at 2 PM, he'd finally meet the mystery man in glasses. And maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous, impulsive TikTok thing would turn out to be the best decision he'd ever made.

krasivyy mal'chik v ochkakh.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of nervous energy and outfit changes. Shane must have tried on every combination of shirts and jeans he had, each one somehow feeling simultaneously too casual and too try-hard. Rose had eventually intervened, pulling out a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, declaring them "approachable but still hot," which Shane supposed was the best he could hope for.

By 1:45 PM, he was standing outside the café, his glasses firmly in place despite the temptation to take them off and clean them for the dozenth time. His hands felt clammy, his heart racing as he checked his phone—no new messages from Ilya, which either meant he was on his way or had come to his senses and decided this whole thing was a terrible idea.

Then Shane saw him.

Ilya Rozanov was even more devastating in person than he'd been on screen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark gold curls that fell just slightly into his eyes and an energy that made him seem almost approachable despite his intimidating attractiveness. He was scanning the sidewalk, clearly searching for someone, for Shane, and when their eyes met, his entire face lit up with a smile so genuine that Shane forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," Ilya said as he approached, slightly breathless, like he'd been hurrying. "You came. Very real." His accent was thicker in person, wrapping around the English words in a way that made Shane's stomach flip.

"I could say the same thing," Shane managed, adjusting his glasses out of pure nervous habit. "Though I guess we both know I'm real—the internet made sure of that."

Ilya laughed, a warm, rich sound that seemed to dissolve some of Shane's tension. "Da, internet is very efficient. Sometimes too efficient." He gestured toward the café door with easy confidence, his smile bordering on wolfish. "Come, we go inside. I buy you coffee, we talk, and I get to look at you in those glasses up close. Is win for everyone, no?"

"So," Shane said, fidgeting with his coffee cup as he tried to project even a fraction of Ilya's confidence. "This is... happening. We're actually doing this. Am I the only one feeling nervous?"

"Nerves? Nyet." Ilya leaned back in the corner booth they'd claimed, one arm draped casually along the back of the seat, looking entirely too comfortable in his own skin. Their orders had just been placed. Black coffee for Shane, something complicated and sweet for Ilya that the barista seemed delighted to make. "I am excited, krasavchik. There is difference." His gaze tracked over Shane's face with unmistakable appreciation. "I see beautiful boy at concert, I think 'this one, I must know him.' And now here you are. Why would I be nervous when universe gives me exactly what I want?"

Shane felt his face heat at the casual endearment, at the way Ilya was looking at him like he was something worth staring at. "I'm not, I mean, I'm pretty sure the alcohol did most of the heavy lifting at that concert," he said, aiming for self-deprecating but landing somewhere closer to flustered. "Sober me is significantly less... whatever I was on that screen."

"I disagree," Ilya said immediately, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, closing the distance between them in a way that made Shane's breath catch. "Drunk Shane was beautiful, yes—happy, free, enjoying music. But sober Shane?" His smile turned softer, more genuine. "Sober Shane is here, talking to me, wearing glasses I ask him to wear. Is brave. I think I like sober Shane very much already."

Shane's heart was doing something complicated in his chest, something that felt dangerously close to hope. He took a sip of his coffee to buy himself a moment, trying to figure out how to respond to someone who seemed to find compliments as easy as breathing. "You're very... direct," he finally said, which was possibly the understatement of the century.

"Is problem?" Ilya asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer. "I think life is too short to pretend I don't want what I want. And what I want is to sit here, drink coffee with you, and maybe—if you say yes—take you to dinner after."

“Oh my god,” Shane whispered to himself. He was in deep already.

"Dinner," Shane repeated, like he was testing the word out. "You're asking me to dinner. After posting a viral TikTok about me, finding me in the comments, and now sitting here telling me I'm brave for showing up." He paused, feeling the weight of Ilya's attention on him, warm and unwavering. "Yeah, okay. Dinner sounds good."

Ilya's grin widened, triumphant and pleased in a way that made Shane's stomach do another complicated flip. "Good. I know perfect place. Not too fancy, but food is excellent. We go at seven, yes?" He reached across the table, fingers brushing Shane's wrist in a touch that felt both casual and deliberate. "Now, tell me about you. What does beautiful boy in glasses do when not getting drunk at Bad Bunny concerts?"

Shane laughed, the sound coming easier now as the initial nerves began to settle. "I'm a yoga instructor, actually. Not nearly as exciting as whatever it is you do that gives you the confidence to hunt down strangers on the internet." He adjusted his glasses, a habit Ilya was clearly already cataloging. "Though I guess right now, getting hunted down is the most interesting thing happening in my life."

"Yoga instructor," Ilya repeated, his eyes lighting up with interest. "So you are flexible, strong, good with your body. This is very good information." The way he said it made it sound like he was filing it away for later, and Shane felt his cheeks heat again. "I am hockey player, play for Ottawa Centaurs. Let's me enjoy passions in my free time. Is why I have eye for beautiful things, da? And why I know immediately when I see something I want."

"Hockey player," Shane said, trying to process that information along with everything else about this surreal situation. "That explains the..." He gestured vaguely at Ilya's everything. The confidence, the build, the way he seemed to take up space like he owned it. "So you're used to going after what you want, then."

"Always," Ilya confirmed, his thumb still tracing absent patterns on Shane's wrist. "On ice, in life, is same thing. You see opportunity, you take it. You see beautiful man at concert, you find him." His expression turned playful, teasing. "Though I admit, usually my opportunities do not require help from three million TikTok users."

Shane blinked, the casual mention of Ottawa hitting him like a delayed reaction. "Wait," he said, sitting up straighter, his coffee forgotten. "Ottawa? You play for Ottawa?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "I live in Ottawa. I was born there and moved back."

Ilya's eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting from casual confidence to genuine surprise. "You live in Ottawa?" he repeated, like he needed to hear it again to believe it. "No. Seriously?"

"Seriously," Shane confirmed, feeling something like wonder settling over him. "I teach at a studio in the Glebe. I've probably walked past your arena a hundred times." He laughed again, the sound edged with disbelief. "What are the odds? We both fly all the way to—where exactly are we right now?"

"San Juan," Ilya supplied, still looking stunned. "We are in Puerto Rico, thousands miles from home, and we meet at Bad Bunny concert." He leaned back, running a hand through his curls like he was trying to process it. "This is... I don't know English word. Sud'ba? Fate?"

"Fate," Shane echoed softly, the word feeling significant in a way that made his chest tight. "Yeah. I mean, what else could it be? You could have been at any concert, in any city. I almost didn't even come—Rose, my best friend, had to drag me as a sort of vacation when she got tickets." He met Ilya's eyes, feeling the weight of the coincidence, the impossibility of it. "But we both ended up here. And now..."

"And now we both go home to same city," Ilya finished, his grin returning, wider and more delighted than before. "This is perfect. Better than perfect. We have dinner tonight, yes, but then—" He gestured expansively, his excitement palpable. "Then we go home, and I take you to better dinner. And maybe after, you show me your yoga studio. Or you come see me play a game." His expression turned playful, teasing. "Or we skip all that, and I just keep you."

Shane felt his face flush hot, but he was smiling now, unable to help it. "You're seriously suggesting we just... keep seeing each other? Back home?"

"Why not?" Ilya said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Universe puts you in front of me twice, once on Jumbotron, once in real life, four thousand miles from home. I am not stupid man. I know sign when I see it." He reached across the table again, this time covering Shane's hand completely with his own. "Besides, I already know I like you. Why would I let you disappear when we live in same city?"

Shane stared at their hands, at the way Ilya's thumb was brushing over his knuckles, and felt something shift in his chest—something hopeful and terrifying and impossibly right. "Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah. Let's see where this goes."

Ilya's smile turned softer, more intimate, his thumb still tracing patterns against Shane's knuckles. "Good," he said, his voice low and warm. "Now, tell me more about this Rose who dragged you to concert, I think I owe her very big thank you."

Dinner that evening was at a small restaurant Ilya had apparently researched the moment Shane agreed, tucked away from the tourist areas with string lights overhead and the sound of live music drifting from somewhere inside. Shane had changed three more times before settling on jeans and a henley, and now he was grateful for the outfit change as Ilya's gaze swept over him with open appreciation when they met outside the restaurant.

"You look perfect," Ilya said simply, offering his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Come, I promise you will love this place."

He did.

The food was incredible—mofongo that Ilya insisted on feeding him a bite of, tostones that they shared between easy conversation, and drinks that went down far too smoothly. But more than that, it was the way Ilya looked at him across the dimly lit table, like Shane was the only person in the entire restaurant, the entire city. By the time dessert arrived, flan that Ilya ordered "for sharing" but mostly watched Shane eat with fond amusement—Shane had stopped trying to convince himself this wasn't already something.

"So," Shane said as they stepped out of the restaurant into the warm night, Ilya's hand finding the small of his back like it belonged there. "What happens now?"

Ilya's eyes gleamed in the string lights, his smile turning playful. "Now? Now I walk you back to your hotel like gentleman. And tomorrow, before we both fly home, maybe you let me take you to beach." He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. "Unless you invite me up tonight, then we skip being gentlemen entirely."

Shane's breath caught, heat flooding through him at the directness of the offer, at the way Ilya was looking at him like he was already imagining what might happen behind closed doors. "I—" he started, his voice embarrassingly unsteady. "Yeah, okay. You can come up."

On his way back to the room, Shane pulled out his phone and shot Rose a quick message: Do NOT use your spare key card to visit me tonight. I repeat: do not come say goodnight. I'll explain tomorrow.

Her response came almost immediately: OMG. DETAILS TOMORROW OR I'M DISOWNING YOU.

He pocketed his phone with a grin, his heart racing as he approached his hotel room door.

Shane's hotel room felt smaller with Ilya in it, the air charged with something electric as the door clicked shut behind them. They stood there for a moment, the city lights filtering through the window, before Ilya stepped forward and cupped Shane's face in his hands, his thumb brushing over Shane's bottom lip.

"You are sure?" Ilya asked softly, his accent thicker now, rougher with want. "Because once I kiss you, krasavchik, I will not want to stop."

Shane's answer was to close the distance between them, pressing his lips to Ilya's in a kiss that was both tentative and desperate, his hands fisting in Ilya's shirt to pull him closer. Ilya made a low sound of approval, one hand sliding into Shane's hair while the other gripped his hip, and suddenly Shane was being walked backward toward the bed, their mouths never breaking apart.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's, his hands still framing Shane's face like something precious. "You taste even better than I imagined," he murmured, his voice rough and low, before capturing Shane's mouth again with renewed hunger.

Shane gasped against Ilya's mouth as they tumbled onto the bed, the hockey player's weight settling over him in a way that felt both grounding and overwhelming. Ilya's hands were everywhere, sliding under Shane's shirt, tracing the lines of muscle he'd earned through years of yoga, making Shane arch into the touch with a breathless sound he'd be embarrassed about later.

"So responsive," Ilya murmured against Shane's neck, his accent thick with desire as he nipped at the sensitive skin there. "I knew you would be like this—knew from moment I saw you on that screen."

"Ilya," Shane managed, his voice cracking as those clever hands found the hem of his shirt and started tugging it upward. He lifted his arms obediently, letting Ilya strip the fabric away before those intense eyes raked over his bare torso with undisguised hunger.

"Bozhe moy," Ilya breathed, his hands spanning Shane's ribs, thumbs brushing over his nipples in a way that made Shane's breath hitch. "You are work of art." He leaned down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Shane's collarbone, across his chest, learning the geography of his body with lips and tongue and teeth.

Shane's hands found Ilya's shoulders, sliding down the broad planes of his back, feeling the muscle shift beneath his fingers as Ilya moved over him. He tugged at Ilya's shirt, suddenly desperate to feel skin against skin, to map the body that had been pressed against him with the same thoroughness Ilya was showing his. Ilya pulled back just long enough to yank his own shirt over his head, and Shane's breath caught at the sight—all hard muscle and smooth skin with small dark spots littering the surface, the evidence of years of athletic discipline on full display.

"Fuck," Shane breathed, his hands exploring the expanse of Ilya's chest, tracing the scattered beauty marks like constellations. "You're gorgeous."

Ilya's answering grin was predatory as he caught Shane's wandering hands and pinned them above his head with one of his own, the other hand working at the button of Shane's jeans. "You keep looking at me like that, and this will be over much too fast," he warned, his voice a low rumble that Shane felt everywhere.

Shane's pulse thundered as Ilya's hand slid lower, fingers deftly working the zipper down. The intensity in those golden and green eyes, the barely restrained hunger, it made Shane feel wanted in a way he'd never experienced before, like he was something worth chasing across an entire island. "Then don't let it be over fast," Shane whispered, his voice rough with need.

Ilya's laugh was low and dark, full of promise as he leaned down to capture Shane's mouth again, this time with bruising intensity. "I plan to take my time with you," he murmured against Shane's lips, his hand finally, finally, sliding beneath the waistband of Shane's jeans. "All night if you let me."

Shane's response was lost in a gasp as Ilya's fingers found him, stroking with confident purpose that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. The room spun, or maybe that was just Shane's head, overwhelmed by sensation and the weight of Ilya above him and the sheer impossibility that this was real, that the man from the Jumbotron incident was here, touching him like this, making him fall apart with methodical precision.

"Ilya," Shane breathed, his hips arching involuntarily into that touch, chasing more friction, more contact, more of everything. His hands strained against Ilya's grip, wanting to touch, to explore, to give back even a fraction of what he was receiving.

Ilya released his wrists with a satisfied hum, both hands now working to rid Shane of his jeans entirely, tugging them down along with his boxers in one smooth motion that left Shane bare and vulnerable beneath him. The way Ilya looked at him then, like he was something precious and debauched all at once, made Shane's skin flush hot from chest to cheeks.

"Krasivyy," Ilya murmured, his hands running up Shane's thighs with reverent slowness. "Beautiful." He leaned down, pressing kisses along the inside of Shane's knee, working his way higher with deliberate intent that had Shane trembling with anticipation.

When Ilya's mouth finally closed around him, Shane's back arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping his throat that was half-gasp, half-moan. The heat, the pressure, the way Ilya worked him with confident expertise, it was overwhelming in the best possible way, pleasure building at the base of his spine with frightening speed. "God, Ilya, I'm not gonna—" Shane managed, his fingers threading through Ilya's hair in warning, but the hockey player only hummed in response, the vibration nearly sending Shane over the edge right then.

Ilya leaned back just enough to look up at him, his lips swollen and eyes dark with desire. "Do you have supplies?" he asked, his voice rough and low.

Shane scrambled for his luggage, nearly tripping over his discarded jeans in his haste as he dug into his toiletries bag. His hands were shaking slightly as he found the condom and lube, holding them up like a victory prize. "I—yeah, I have them."

Ilya's answering smile was slow and wicked as he rose to his full height, finally ridding himself of his own jeans with efficient movements that left him gloriously bare. Shane's mouth went dry at the sight, his eyes tracking over the powerful lines of Ilya's body, the evidence of his own arousal impossible to miss.

"Good," Ilya murmured, taking the items from Shane's trembling hands and setting them on the nightstand within easy reach. He crawled back onto the bed, caging Shane beneath him with his arms, and captured his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. "Now I can take care of you properly."

As Ilya slicked his fingers and swirled one around Shane's rim, slowly sinking in, Shane found it increasingly harder to tear his eyes from Ilya as he was sucked back down to the root, a second finger joining shortly after the first. He was reveling in the slight burn, in the pleasure when Ilya found that spot inside, dragging his fingers over it again and again before scissoring them to stretch Shane open. Never once losing rhythm, that golden-green gaze locked on Shane's face, watching his eyes start to flutter and moans escape his parted lips, his chest rising and falling in staccato breaths, his ribs flexing with his resistance to come already.

"Please," Shane finally gasped out, his voice wrecked and desperate as Ilya added a third finger, stretching him wider, preparing him with maddening thoroughness. "I'm ready, God, Ilya, I need—"

"I know what you need," Ilya interrupted, his voice a dark promise as he withdrew his fingers, reaching for the condom with steady hands that contrasted sharply with Shane's trembling anticipation. He rolled it on with efficient movements, slicking himself generously before positioning himself between Shane's thighs, the blunt pressure at Shane's entrance making his breath catch in his throat.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded softly, one hand cupping Shane's jaw as he began to push inside with agonizing slowness, giving Shane time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being claimed so completely. Shane's eyes flew open, locking onto Ilya's sparkling gaze as inch by inch he was filled, his breath coming in short gasps until Ilya was finally, fully seated inside him.

"Ty tak khorosho menya prinimayesh," Ilya groaned, his forehead dropping to rest against Shane's, his hips perfectly still as he let Shane adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint. "You take me so well."

Shane couldn't form words anymore, could only nod frantically as his hands gripped Ilya's shoulders, urging him to move.

When Ilya finally withdrew and thrust back in, the angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside Shane that made stars explode behind his eyelids, and he cried out, his nails digging into Ilya's back, their bodies coming together as they made the bed frame creak beneath them. Ilya set a rhythm that was both deliberate and devastating, each roll of his hips precise and purposeful, like he was mapping Shane's pleasure with the same intensity he brought to the ice.

"Shane," Ilya breathed against his ear, his accent thick and breaking apart with each thrust, "you feel, bozhe—like heaven." His hand slid between their bodies, wrapping around Shane's neglected length and stroking in time with his movements, the dual sensation pushing Shane rapidly toward the edge.

Shane's world narrowed to the points where their bodies connected, Ilya inside him, Ilya's hand on him, Ilya's mouth hot against his neck, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine until he couldn't hold back anymore. "I'm gonna, Ilya, I'm—" The words dissolved into a broken cry as his orgasm crashed over him, his body clenching around Ilya as he came hard between their bodies, painting streaks across both their stomachs.

The sensation of Shane falling apart beneath him, around him, was Ilya's undoing. With a guttural groan that might have been Shane's name mixed with Russian profanity, Ilya thrust deep one final time, his body going rigid as his own release overtook him, his face buried in the curve of Shane's neck as he shuddered through it.

For a long moment, they lay tangled together, both breathing hard, Ilya's weight pressing Shane into the mattress in a way that felt grounding rather than suffocating. Shane's fingers traced idle patterns along Ilya's spine, feeling the rapid thundering of his heartbeat gradually slow to match his own. When Ilya finally lifted his head, his expression was softer than Shane had seen all night—almost vulnerable—as he pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to Shane's lips.

"Stay," Shane heard himself say, the word escaping before he could second-guess it, his fingers still tracing patterns on Ilya's sweat-dampened skin. "Just for tonight."

“Tonight, good place to start.” Ilya's answering smile was soft, almost tender, as he carefully withdrew and disposed of the condom before settling back beside Shane, pulling him close against his chest.

He closed his eyes, letting his heart beat slowly settle. “You still owe me a trip to the beach.”

"I have nowhere else I would rather be," Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss to Shane's temple, and Shane found himself believing it.