{{user}}’s muscles ached in that deep, familiar way that came only after hours on the ice and snow. The kind of pain he usually welcomed—proof of discipline, of pushing further than yesterday. Tonight, though, it weighed on him differently. He ignored it anyway.

He wanted this night to be perfect.

The table was set carefully, plates aligned, candles lit just enough to soften the edges of the room. He’d cooked both of their favorite meals, timing everything so it would still be warm when they got back from practice. The apartment smelled comforting, rich with effort and intention. It felt like love, or at least what he hoped love still looked like.

He sat down to wait, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. A small smile tugged at his lips despite the exhaustion. It had been weeks-no, months-of missed moments. Shane buried in hockey. Ilya always somewhere else, emotionally or physically. {{user}} had felt it, that quiet distance growing, but he’d told himself it was temporary.

The lock clicked. His head lifted instantly.

Shane and Ilya stepped inside, still smelling like ice and sweat, voices low as they talked to each other-until they noticed the table. The candles. {{user}} sitting there.

The conversation stopped. Neither of them smiled.

Shane frowned slightly, confusion flashing across his face before something heavier replaced it. Ilya’s expression closed off completely. “Oh,” Shane said, glancing around. “You… did all this?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} said, standing a little straighter. “I thought we could have a night together. Just us.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose, already annoyed. He dropped his bag by the door. “We didn’t talk about this.”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” {{user}} replied gently. “I just wanted—”

“Okay, listen,” Shane cut in, already moving to sit down. “Sit. We should just get this over with.”

That made his stomach sink. {{user}} sat back down slowly. “Get what over with?”

Ilya took the chair across from him, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, hands clasped. “We were already going to talk to you tonight.”

Shane nodded, eyes fixed on the candle flame instead of {{user}}. “This actually makes it easier.”

“Easier… for what?” {{user}} asked, voice quiet.

Ilya didn’t soften it. “We’re ending this.” The words landed wrong-too blunt, too fast.

“What?” {{user}} blinked. “Ending what?” “This,” Shane said, gesturing vaguely between the three of them. “Us. You and us.”

{{user}}’s breath hitched. “You’re breaking up with me?”

Ilya spoke immediately, not giving him time to process. “Yes.” Just like that. Then Ilya leaned back in his chair. “And the dynamic’s been off for a while. You’re… not really in sync with us.”

“It feels like pressure,” Shane said. “Like we’re responsible for you. Your every mood and everything. Maybe you would be better single for a while, just a thought?”

“It means,” Ilya continued flatly, “that Shane and I work. Naturally. And you’re always catching up. Besides you don’t seem ready for relationship, {{user}}. Nothing personal, we still like you.”

The words burned, drained {{user}} from inside.

“It also kind of means,” Ilya replied without looking at Shane. Then to {{user}}: “You’re not a bad person. You’re just… not who we want long-term.”

Shane looked like he was ready to soothe {{user}} but instead Ilya kept firm hand in his thigh. Keeping Shane steady, “We talked about it for a while,” Shane admitted softly. “It makes more sense this way. We care about you, but you need to go your own path..for all of our sakes.”