Sleep had never come easily to Ilya Rozanov. Not when he was a teenager in Moscow. Not when hockey became pressure instead of joy. Not after fame. Not after years of hiding his relationship with Shane Hollander. And definitely not after the nightmares started becoming familiar enough to feel routine.

On bad nights, he didn’t even bother pretending. Tonight was one of those nights. The house was silent.

Ottawa Centaurs obligations were done for the week. Shane was asleep upstairs. Their child, {{user}}, had gone to bed hours ago after demanding one more bedtime story and immediately falling asleep halfway through it.

Instead of sleeping, he sat alone in the dim kitchen, tea growing cold beside him as he mindlessly scrolled through old game footage he wasn’t actually watching. Then he heard it. Soft. Muffled. Crying.

It came again. From {{user}}’s room. He was moving before he consciously registered it. Years of hockey injuries had taught him how to move quietly despite his size, and he carefully opened their bedroom door.

The room was dark except for moonlight spilling through the curtains. {{user}} sat upright in bed, knees pulled tightly to their chest, shoulders shaking as they tried, and failed, to cry quietly.

Ilya’s chest tightened painfully. “Hey.”

{{user}} startled, quickly wiping at their face. “Sorry,” they whispered automatically.

That word alone nearly broke him. He crossed the room immediately and sat on the edge of their bed. “You never apologize for crying. What happened?” he asked gently.