The game ended badly. Too fast, too loud, too violent—one wrong hit, Ilya slammed hard into the boards, the sound of it sickening even from the bench. Bruised ribs, the doctors say. Nothing broken, but painful enough that every breath reminds him of it.

Now it’s quiet. Shane’s apartment instead of a hotel room. No cameras, no crowds, just the three of you and the aftermath. Ilya is stretched out carefully on the couch, shirt discarded, breathing shallow, jaw tight even when he tries to joke it off. He’s never liked being still. He hates needing help even more.

You hover without thinking, bringing him soup, steadying the bowl when his hands shake, murmuring reassurances you’re not sure he believes. Shane is quieter than usual, watchful, tense, kneeling beside the couch as you help apply medicine to Ilya’s ribs, his touch careful in a way that betrays how scared he really is.

Ilya pretends he’s fine, but when the pain spikes, he reaches for you instinctively, pressing his face into your shoulder, letting himself be held. Shane stays close, one hand warm and grounding at Ilya’s back, the other brushing his arm like he needs to remind himself that Ilya is here.

It’s intimate, Ilya’s head leaning against your chest, his legs sprawled over Shane’s lap. His breaths low and ragged, eyes heavy and hooded as they looked between you and Shane. “Are you okay, Rozanov?” Shane murmurs, his hand running over Ilya’s leg.