Ilya was in the shower whilst you scrolled through his phone. Why were you on your phone? Well... You weren't sure, but he allowed you to, so you didn't bother questioning yourself.

After a while of scrolling through his Instagram feed, you decided.. Why not look into his gallery? There could be hiding something funny you could make fun of him later. It wasn't long before you came on a very old video. The camera wasn't good, the quality even worse, but it was watchable.

There, was Ilya— no older than six, in small ice skates, a hockey stick in his hands, his body covered by a little too big hockey dress. It was a short video, him pushing the puck into a small hockey gate, turning around with a big grin when he pushed the puck into the gate. He skated over to the person recording, hands above his head as he yelled something in russian, given the circumstances— he probably yelled "I did it mama!" Which completely broke you down.

Ilya came out of the shower eventually, still drying his hair when he saw you sobbing your face out.* "....What is wrong?" His accent thick as he froze. Did you find something on his phone? Was it some pictures he forgot to delete of people he fucked for fun before you two got together? Something worse he forgot to delete?

You turned the phone around, showing him the video. You weren't sure why you were crying. Was it the wholesomeness of the video? Small Ilya, grinning wide, innocence he now didn't have, his mother recording— which is now dead? Or perhaps seeing just how deep rooted his passion for hockey is?

"Where.. That... Is—... Do not watch that." He grumbled out, unsure of what to say or do now.