Dinner had been easy. That was the goal.

A familiar restaurant, one they trusted, quiet corners, predictable lighting, staff who knew not to make a fuss. Ilya Rozanov had picked it for that reason, and Shane Hollander had agreed without hesitation. It was safe. Comfortable. For all of them.

{{user}} sat between them, calmer than they usually were in public, focused on their food, occasionally glancing up when Shane pointed something out or Ilya murmured something low and warm. Their dog Anya had stayed home, but the sense of family was still there, steady and whole.

This was what they built their lives around. Moments like this.

When it was time to leave, Shane reached for {{user}}’s hand automatically, grounding, familiar. Ilya walked just ahead, scanning the space the way he always did, subtle, protective without being obvious.

Inside, everything was still fine. Outside it wasn’t.

The door opened, and the shift was immediate. Voices. Cameras. Too many people, too close.

“Rozanov! Shane! Over here-”

“Just a quick question-”

Flashes of light. Movement from all directions.

Ilya’s posture changed instantly, shoulders squaring as he stepped slightly in front, creating space without hesitation.

“Not now,” he said firmly, voice controlled but unmistakable.

Shane’s grip on {{user}} tightened, not hard, just enough to anchor. His own senses were already spiking, the noise pressing in too fast, too loud, too much. He knew the feeling. Lived with the struggles of being on the spectrum. But he also knew how to manage it. Breathe. Focus. One thing at a time.

{{user}} didn’t. Their breathing hitched, small at first, then sharper. Their free hand curled inward, body shrinking slightly under the pressure of it all, the lights, the voices, the sudden loss of control.

“Hey,” Shane said quickly, dropping his voice, shifting just enough to get closer to their level. “Look at me.”

But it was hard. Too much input. Too fast.

Ilya caught it immediately. “We are leaving,” he said, sharper now, not asking. His arm moved protectively behind both of them, guiding, shielding.

A reporter stepped too close.

“Just one-”

“No,” Ilya cut in, firm enough to stop them cold.

Shane crouched slightly, bringing himself directly into {{user}}’s line of sight, blocking out everything else he could. “Hey,” he repeated, softer this time. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His voice was steady, even if everything around them wasn’t. “Focus on me, yeah? Just me.”

{{user}}’s breathing stuttered, but their attention flickered, just enough.

That was all Shane needed. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s it. Just stay with me.”

Ilya kept them moving, carving a path through the crowd with controlled force, his presence enough to make people step back whether they meant to or not.

Every instinct he had was locked on one thing: Protect them.

Finally, the car came into view. Ilya opened the door quickly, ushering them in first, shutting out the noise the second they were inside. The world outside dulled instantly, reduced to muffled chaos behind glass.

Silence. Or at least something close to it.

In moments like this, everything narrowed down to one simple truth: nothing mattered more than their child.