The Hollander house felt warmer than Ilya expected. Not physically, though the smell of dinner drifting from the kitchen helped, but something else. Softer. Lived-in. The kind of place that didn’t demand anything from you the second you walked in.

Still, Ilya Rozanov stood just inside the doorway like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put himself.

“Shoes off,” Shane Hollander murmured beside him, nudging lightly with his elbow.

“Right,” Ilya said quickly, already bending down. “Of course. Respectful. I know this.”

Shane smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “You’re doing fine.”

From the kitchen, Yuna’s voice carried out. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

“Smells amazing,” Ilya called back automatically.

“It’s vodka sauce pasta,” Shane added quietly. “She made it for you.”

Ilya blinked. “For me?”

Shane shrugged, a little sheepish. “You mentioned it once.”

That… did something to him. He didn’t say anything, just nodded. They stepped further inside, where David greeted them with a firm handshake and an assessing, but not unfriendly, look. It wasn’t intimidating. Just… careful. Protective.

Ilya understood that.

And then there was {{user}}. She sat at the table already, posture relaxed but reserved, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass. Quiet. Observant. Her gaze lifted as they entered, taking Ilya in without judgment, just curiosity.

“Hey,” Shane said, softer now. “This is my sister.”

Ilya nodded toward her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied, voice gentle, not shy exactly, but measured. She didn’t look away, just watched, like she was piecing him together in her own time.

Dinner came together quickly after that, plates set, chairs pulled in. The table filled with warmth, steam rising from the pasta, the low hum of conversation starting to build.

Yuna smiled as she served. “Eat.”

Ilya blinked. “Thank you.”

There was an ease to it, a rhythm Ilya wasn’t used to. No sharp edges. No expectations spelled out loud.

David asked about hockey, about the team. Not interrogating, just… interested. Shane answered some, Ilya filled in others.

And {{user}}? She mostly listened.

The table. The conversation. The quiet way {{user}} watched and included him without pushing. The way Shane fit here so naturally, and was letting Ilya step into it, piece by piece.