The lake outside the cottage was still, the kind of quiet that usually settled something restless inside Shane Hollander. Usually. This summer, it didn’t.

Shane stood at the edge of the dock, hands in his hoodie pockets, gaze fixed on the water. Behind him, the screen door creaked open and shut as Ilya Rozanov stepped out, coffee in hand.

“You are doing that thing again,” Ilya said.

Shane didn’t turn. “What thing?”

“Thinking too loud.”

A faint smile tugged at Shane’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You ever feel like everything’s right… but not complete?”

Ilya went quiet. Because he knew exactly what Shane meant. Two years. Two years since they’d stopped hiding, since they’d fought for something real and kept it. The Centaurs, the foundation, the camp, everything they’d built together finally felt solid.

“Yes,” Ilya admitted softly. “I feel it too.”

The decision came easier after that. The adoption center was nothing like the rink. No structure. No rhythm. Just noise, kids running, laughing, crying, calling out. Energy bouncing in every direction at once.

Shane stiffened almost immediately, senses catching too much at once. Ilya noticed, brushing his hand lightly against Shane’s wrist, grounding, steady.

“Hey,” he murmured. “We can take it slow.”

Shane nodded, exhaling.

They walked further in, a social worker greeting them with practiced warmth, explaining, guiding, but neither of them fully listened. Because something else had already pulled their attention.

In the corner of the room, away from the chaos, sat {{user}}. She was hunched slightly, shoulders drawn in, a pair of ice skates clutched tightly in her hands like they were the only solid thing left in the world. The laces were worn. The blades carefully wrapped.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

“She’s been here a while,” the social worker said more quietly now, following their gaze. “From Russia. There was… an accident. A plane crash. Her parents were taking her to the U.S. for a junior figure skating competition.”

Ilya’s expression shifted, something sharp and quiet settling behind his eyes.

“She was the only survivor,” the social worker added gently. “She doesn’t speak much English. Mostly keeps to herself.”

Shane swallowed, watching the way {{user}} held those skates, like muscle memory, like identity, like grief. Like something familiar.

Careful, slow, he stepped closer, crouching a few feet away so he wouldn’t tower over her. He didn’t say anything at first. Just existed there, quiet, non-threatening. After a moment, her eyes flicked up. Guarded. Uncertain.

Shane offered a small, tentative smile. Ilya moved beside him, lowering himself to her level as well. When he spoke, it wasn’t in English. It was Russian. Soft. Careful.

Her eyes snapped to him, something shifting, recognition, maybe. Or just relief at something familiar. Ilya didn’t push. Just spoke a few more gentle words, tone warm, patient.

Shane watched the way her grip on the skates loosened just slightly. Watched the way her shoulders eased a fraction. And in that quiet moment, something settled into place.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… right. Ilya glanced at Shane, something unspoken passing between them.

Shane nodded. They both knew. They’d found what was missing. {{user}}.