The penthouse was quieter than Shane expected. Usually there was the low hum of schedules being coordinated, sticks drying by the doorway, or Ilya Rozanov muttering in Russian while making tea in the kitchen. But tonight, the apartment overlooking Ottawa was calm except for the soft clicking sound coming from the living room.

Shane stepped out of the kitchen, socked feet silent against the hardwood floor, and found {{user}} sitting cross-legged on the couch with noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a hockey statistics spreadsheet open on his laptop.

His nephew didn’t notice him immediately. Shane understood that kind of focus. Too well.

He lingered for a second holding two different bowls in his hands. One had plain buttered noodles, the other carefully separated apple slices and crackers. Safe foods. Predictable textures.

“Uh,” Shane started softly, already wincing at interrupting him. “I made dinner. Or… versions of dinner.”

{{user}} looked up quickly, shoulders tensing before relaxing once he realized it was only Shane. “Thanks.”

Shane gave a small nod and placed the bowls down on the coffee table with almost ceremonial precision, making sure none of the foods touched. He remembered hating when foods mixed unexpectedly as a kid. People always acted like he was difficult for caring.

He sat beside him, though not too close. “You don’t have to eat all of it,” Shane added. “Just enough.”

After a few minutes, {{user}} quietly asked, “Did you always know hockey would work out for you?”

Shane blinked, caught off guard.

“No,” he admitted. “I just knew it made sense in my head when other things didn’t.”

That earned him a glance.

Shane rubbed his hands together absentmindedly, an anxious habit he never quite lost despite years of interviews and cameras in his face. “People thought I was weird growing up. Too serious. Too quiet. I memorized player stats instead of talking to kids my age.”

{{user}} looked back at his laptop. “I wish I could play.”

Shane’s expression gentled immediately. “You still love the game, though.”

“Yeah.”

“That counts.”

And Shane meant it. He knew what it was like to feel trapped inside a body or mind that didn’t cooperate the way people expected. Hockey had become his language because regular conversation never came easily.

He reached over carefully, tapping the edge of the spreadsheet. “Your defensive analysis here?” he said. “Actually better than what some professional analysts put out.”

For the first time all evening, the apartment felt lighter. Not because Shane was babysitting his eighteen year old nephew. Because, sitting there beside his nephew, he realized neither of them had to explain themselves to be understood.