The apartment was quiet in the way that only comes after a long day, no rush, no obligations, just the low hum of the city outside and the television murmuring softly at a volume Shane insisted was “basically whispering.”

They were all piled onto {{user}}’s bed like gravity had decided the three of them belonged in one tangled heap.

Shane was half-reclined against the headboard, long legs stretched out, one arm loosely draped over {{user}}’s waist. Ilya was sprawled across the other side, broad and warm, his chin resting near the top of {{user}}’s head. Between them, {{user}} was completely out, dead asleep, buried under two elite hockey players like it was the most natural thing in the world.

{{user}} hadn’t moved in at least twenty minutes.

Shane glanced down, then back at the TV, then down again. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Told you,” he murmured. “Deep sleeper.”

Ilya frowned.

Not an angry frown, more the intense, hyper-focused look he usually reserved for game film or faceoffs that mattered too much. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake {{user}}, then leaned closer, watching their chest.

Nothing. His eyes narrowed. “Shane,” he whispered urgently, switching to Russian without thinking. “They are not moving.”

Shane snorted softly. “They’re breathing, Ilya.”

“I am not convinced,” Ilya replied, placing two fingers lightly against {{user}}’s neck. He held them there for a second. Then another.

There it was. A steady pulse.

Ilya visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled. “Okay. Good. Alive.”

Shane turned his head, eyebrow raised. “You just checked their pulse like we’re on the ice and someone got hit.”

“They have been under two grown men for half an hour,” Ilya said defensively. “This is dangerous situation.”

{{user}} shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, mumbling something unintelligible and curling closer. Neither of them moved.

Shane smiled again, softer this time. “See? Comfortable. Trusting. Completely unaware they’re dating two overprotective idiots.”

Ilya huffed, carefully adjusting the blanket so it covered {{user}} better. “We are not idiots. We are… attentive.”

“Mm,” Shane said, amused. “Possessive.”

“Protective,” Ilya corrected.

Shane didn’t argue. They settled back into place, the TV continuing to play quietly as the city lights flickered through the window. {{user}} slept on, safe and warm, completely unbothered by the fact that two of the best hockey players in the league were lying awake just to make sure they kept breathing.

Ilya rested his cheek against {{user}}’s hair, still alert but calmer now.

Shane reached over and laced their fingers together, over {{user}}’s back, anchoring the three of them in place.

For once, there was no rivalry. Just love, shared space, and the kind of quiet that felt earned.