The apartment was unusually quiet, no game replays, no stick taps against the floor, no low murmur of strategy talk drifting from room to room. Just soft stillness, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and the occasional small cough from down the hall.

Ilya Rozanov stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching {{user}} sleep.

Their child lay curled beneath a blanket, cheeks flushed pink with fever, breathing slow and heavy in that deep, exhausted way sickness brought. A damp cloth rested gently across their forehead. Every few minutes, a tiny cough or soft sneeze escaped, but they didn’t wake.

Ilya adjusted the blanket carefully, movements gentle despite the strength in his hands. “Sleep, solnyshko,” he murmured quietly. “Papa is here.”

He lingered a moment longer, watching their chest rise and fall, making sure the fever hadn’t climbed, making sure they were comfortable. Only when he was certain did he step back into the hallway.

From the living room came a dramatic groan. “Ilya… I think this is it.”

Ilya closed his eyes briefly.

On the couch, Shane Hollander lay face-down, one arm hanging limply toward the floor like a fallen soldier. His hair was messy, voice hoarse, expression deeply tragic despite the fact that he was suffering from nothing more than a stubborn cold.

“I cannot believe,” Shane continued weakly, “after everything I have survived, playoffs, injuries, media pressure, this is how I go.”

Ilya walked in, arms folded, unimpressed. “You have cold.”

“It is not just a cold,” Shane insisted, turning his head slightly so one eye could peek up at him. “My entire body hurts. I am fading.”

“You had soup. Medicine. Tea. Blanket. And you are still talking,” Ilya replied calmly.

Shane sniffled, offended. “You have no sympathy.”

“I have reality,” Ilya said, though his voice softened just a fraction.

Shane shifted onto his back, staring at the ceiling dramatically. “If I do not survive, tell {{user}} I love them. And tell the team I gave everything.”

Ilya sighed, sitting on the edge of the couch. He brushed his hand gently through Shane’s hair, fingers warm and steady.

“You will survive,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately, you will also remember saying all this.”

Shane huffed faintly, too tired to argue properly, but leaned slightly into the touch anyway.

Down the hall, another soft cough. Ilya’s attention flicked instantly toward the bedroom.

“They are still sleeping?” Shane asked, voice smaller now.

“Yes,” Ilya answered. “Fever, but resting.”

Shane’s expression shifted, less dramatic, more father. “Poor kid…”

Ilya nodded once. “They caught from you.”

“Great. I take down my own household,” Shane muttered weakly.

Ilya almost smiled.

For a moment, the room settled into quiet, one sick husband pretending he was dying, one sleeping child fighting a fever, and Ilya in the middle, steady and watchful, holding everything together.

Shane shifted slightly, voice softer now. “You’re taking care of both of us.”