Chapter Text
Shane Hollander possessed a highly cultivated, incredibly specific talent for not going home.
He didn’t think of it as avoidance. Avoidance implied guilt, fear, or some sort of unresolved emotional complex that he absolutely did not have the time or interest to unpack.
He was just busy.
Busy enough to volunteer for agonizingly early six a.m. ice times and say yes to every extra assignment his professors threw at him until, somewhere in the blur of lesson plans and defensive hockey drills, the distance stopped feeling temporary and became a self-sustaining habit.
And then, God help him, it got easy.
Toronto was the perfect buffer. It was loud, chaotic, and conveniently far enough away that no one could simply glide up his driveway and demand an explanation for why he had missed Sunday dinner three months in a row.
Shane sat at the cheap, slightly wobbly desk shoved into the corner of his living room, staring blankly at a stack of crumpled worksheets.
Twenty-four earnest, chaotic attempts at third-grade reading comprehension.
He uncapped a red pen, circled a backwards ‘E’ with a heavy sigh, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His father - a man who measured human worth entirely in corporate acquisitions and square footage - would probably have an actual stroke if he saw this apartment.
Or the fact that Shane was spending his Thursday night grading them instead of doing literally anything remotely Hollander-like.
His phone vibrated against the cheap veneer of the desk, jarring him so badly he nearly dragged a thick line of red ink across little Sophie Bennett’s spelling test.
Shane glanced down at the glowing screen.
Three missed calls. All from his mother.
He stared at the caller ID like it was a live grenade. He flipped the red pen between his long fingers, actively debating whether pretending the battery had failed would make him a bad son or just a tired one.
Unfortunately, Yuna Hollander had very strong, terrifying opinions about ignored phone calls.
Bracing himself, he picked it up and swiped accept. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, thank god,” Yuna said immediately, her voice crisp, melodic, and entirely devoid of hesitation. “I was about to assume you’d died and your landlord was hiding the body.”
Shane leaned his head back against the worn, squeaky fabric of his desk chair with a sigh. “I’m busy, Mom. Not dead.”
“You are always busy, Shane. It is a chronic condition at this point.”
He rolled his eyes at the water-stained ceiling. “It’s because I have my practicum classes, and the kids have their standardized testing next week, and the team has back-to-back games -”
“And it is my birthday next week,” Yuna cut in. “Or had you forgotten?”
Shane shrank physically into his seat, suddenly feeling like he was twelve years old again. “Of course I didn’t forget. I already bought your gift. I was going to mail it-”
“You are not mailing anything,” she replied smoothly, wielding her tone with effortless authority. “You are coming home. For the entire week.”
Shane stopped breathing. “A week?”
“Yes, Shane. A week. Everyone’s arriving Monday.”
Everyone.
That single word was enough to make his chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Mom, I really don’t know if I can take a whole week off. I have classes and practice and-”
“You can, and you will,” Yuna stated, leaving zero room for negotiation. And then, her voice dropped an octave, softening into something devastatingly genuine. “We miss you, sweetheart. Please come home.”
Damn. It always worked.
Shane let out a long, defeated breath, already mourning the loss of his sanity before he even officially agreed to surrender it. “…Okay. Fine. I’ll come.”
The shift in her tone was instantaneous - bright and moving at a hundred miles an hour. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Your father will be so pleased, and your grandmother is flying in, and oh! You’ll finally get to meet Kip’s boyfriend.”
Shane frowned, pulling the phone a little closer to his ear, his brain stalling out. “Wait. Kip is dating someone? Our Kip?”
“Yes! Scott something. Or Spencer. Regardless, he’s a corporate lawyer from Boston and your grandmother already approves, so clearly it’s serious.”
Of course she did. A corporate lawyer.
Shane hummed quietly, his gaze drifting aimlessly across the lived-in disaster of his living room.
“And,” Yuna continued, her tone dropping into a register that was just a little too carefully constructed to be casual, “are you bringing someone?”
Shane froze.
The red pen slipped from his fingers, hitting the desk with a soft clack.
“…What do you mean?”
“Well, a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend,” she added seamlessly, her progressive tone perfectly rehearsed. “We don’t judge, Shane. Kip is very happy, and that’s what matters. We just want you to be happy too. It’s going to be a long week of events. Everyone is bringing a plus-one.”
A cold, heavy dread settled securely in the pit of Shane’s stomach.
“Unless there’s no one serious right now?” Yuna pressed gently.
Shane stared blindly at the worksheets spread across his desk. Third-grade spelling tests, cold coffee, a freezing apartment. And somewhere in Boston, his cousin Kip was packing a monogrammed bag with a corporate lawyer.
He was the rogue element of the family.
“I-I wasn’t planning on bringing anyone,” Shane admitted, his throat tight.
“Oh.”
That single syllable hung in the air, carrying enough pity to make Shane sit up entirely straight.
“Well,” Yuna said gently, “that’s perfectly alright, sweetheart. There's no rush. I just hate the thought of you spending the entire week alone while everyone else-”
“I have a boyfriend.”
The words bypassed his prefrontal cortex entirely.
Shane stopped breathing. He sat perfectly still, staring blankly at the wall, his grip tightening around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
What the hell did I just do.
“…What?” Yuna said at last, the polite pity vanishing instantly.
“I- yeah,” Shane stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I do.”
“Oh my God,” Yuna breathed. And then, her voice pitched up into a register that shattered the sound barrier: “OH MY GOD! Since when? Why didn’t you tell me? What’s his name? Is he coming? Shane, you cannot casually drop a bomb like that and expect me not to ask questions!”
“He’s coming,” Shane interrupted rapidly, blindly frantic to stop her momentum before she started planning the seating charts. “With me. For the whole week.”
On the other end of the line, he heard a sharp gasp followed by movement, like Yuna had clamped a hand over the receiver to scream for her assistant. Or his father. Probably half the estate.
“We are so incredibly excited to meet him,” Yuna said when she finally came back, practically vibrating with joy. “I cannot believe you kept this a secret from us. You are terrible. What’s his name?”
For one horrible, suspended second, Shane’s mind went completely, entirely blank.
He looked wildly around the messy apartment, panicking, hoping a normal, convincing male name might just magically manifest in the air.
The worksheets scattered across his desk gave him nothing except the names of eight-year-olds, and he absolutely refused to tell his mother he was dating someone named Kimi Antonelli from the third grade.
His gaze kept moving until it locked onto a piece of white fabric.
A medical school lab coat. It was draped carelessly over the back of the dining chair, horribly wrinkled, one sleeve slipping lazily toward the floor.
Shane’s attention zeroed in on the neat, dark blue embroidery stitched over the breast pocket.
Rozanov, Ilya.
“…Ilya.”
“Ilya! Oh, wow, that is a beautiful name,” Yuna gasped, utterly delighted. “Where is he from? What does he do? How did you meet? Is he a student?”
Shane dragged a heavy hand down his face. He pushed back from the desk a little too quickly, his knee slamming into the edge of the cheap wood hard enough to bruise. He ignored the pain.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice an octave higher than usual as he started pacing the small living room. “I’m late for practice. Ice time.”
“Shane Hollander, do not hang up on me-”
“I’ll tell you everything when I get there, okay? I promise. Full debriefing.”
“Fine,” Yuna huffed, though she sounded far too thrilled to be genuinely annoyed. “But you will tell me everything. And tell Ilya we’re very, very excited to meet him.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
The second the call ended, Shane ripped the phone away from his ear and let his arm drop limply to his side.
“…What did I just do?” he whispered to the empty room.
The lock on the front door clicked.
“What did you do?”
Shane jumped so high his soul temporarily left his body. He spun around, nearly dropping his phone.
Ilya Rozanov stood in the cramped entryway, kicking the snow off his heavy boots. He looked exhausted in that distinct way exclusive to medical students. His blond hair was a messy, wind-blown disaster as he shrugged out of his thick winter coat.
Despite the dark circles under his striking, blue eyes and the energy he constantly radiated, he looked frustratingly good.
“Why do you look like you just committed a white-collar felony?” Ilya asked, his voice a low, raspy, accented drawl. He tossed his damp coat toward the armchair, missing it completely.
He ignored it, walking straight past Shane and reaching for the coffee maker.
Shane stared at his broad back for a second too long, his brain entirely short-circuiting, before the reality of the situation finally caught up with him.
“I told my family I have a boyfriend.”
Ilya paused. He was holding a chipped, slightly stained mug halfway to the coffee pot.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, fixing Shane with an incredibly flat, intensely unimpressed stare.
“…Okay,” Ilya said slowly, assessing Shane like a curious medical anomaly. “Do you?”
“No.”
Ilya let out a quiet hum that sounded far more mildly amused than surprised. He turned back to the counter, poured his black coffee, and took a long, agonizing sip before fully leaning his weight against the laminate counter.
“Then why did you inform them that you do?”
“I don’t know,” Shane exploded, the tension finally snapping. He began to pace the short length of the living room, running both hands through his dark hair. “I panicked. My mother cornered me. It’s her birthday next week, the entire family is going to be there- I lost my mind.”
Ilya tracked his pacing lazily over the rim of his mug. “That sounds like a very serious you problem, Hollander.”
“It is,” Shane shot back, spinning to face him, desperation clinging to his vocal cords. And then, he stopped abruptly in the middle of the room as the rest of the conversation caught up to him. “…Unless it isn’t.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed instantly into sharp, dangerous slits. “No.”
“I didn’t even ask you a question yet!”
“You didn’t have to,” Ilya stated, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical precision. “Your body language is a disaster. It’s pretty obvious what’s happening here.”
Shane scowled defensively. “Clear?”
“Impulsive decision made under intense psychological pressure. Immediate regret. Aimless pacing. Elevated heart rate.” Ilya counted the symptoms lazily on his long fingers before taking another sip of coffee. “I learned this in my psych rotation.”
Shane stopped dead in the middle of the rug, momentarily derailed by how terrifyingly fast Ilya had diagnosed the situation.
“That was… irritatingly accurate, Rozanov.”
A slow, smug smirk crossed Ilya’s face. “I know.”
Shane stared at him for a second, feeling incredibly cornered by his own actions. He dragged a hand through his hair again and stepped closer to the kitchen island, dropping his voice into something genuinely pleading.
“…Anyway,” Shane pushed on, his patience and pride rapidly evaporating. “I just need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a week. It's a simple acting job.”
Ilya leaned back further against the counter. “No.”
“It’s a birthday party.”
“No.”
Shane let out a frustrated, ragged breath and dropped both hands heavily onto the counter, leaning in. “They already know your name.”
“No- what?” Ilya froze completely.
Shane looked away, feeling a humiliating flush of heat creeping rapidly up his neck. “I panicked.”
Ilya straightened slowly. All the lazy, sarcastic amusement drained from his face instantly as he stared at Shane across the narrow kitchen.
“And in that panic,” Ilya said, his voice dangerously soft and careful, “you specifically said my name?”
Shane gestured helplessly toward the dining chair. “Your lab coat was literally right there! In my line of sight! What was I supposed to do?”
“Literally anything else,” Ilya said flatly, staring at Shane like he was the dumbest creature to ever walk the earth.
“Look, you’re single, my family is going to love you, and we already know each other. It makes logistical sense.”
Ilya folded his arms securely across his broad chest, looking Shane over with profound, obvious disbelief. “No, it doesn’t.”
“We live together,” Shane insisted, gesturing between them. “We know things about each other’s habits. We already have a dynamic.”
“We tolerate each other.”
“That’s basically a relationship!”
Something that looked dangerously close to a real smile pulled briefly at the corner of Ilya’s mouth before he violently suppressed it.
“And you’re…” Shane continued, gesturing vaguely in Ilya's general direction, clearly grasping at thin air. “You.”
Ilya’s left eyebrow lifted slowly, majestically, toward his hairline. “Being extremely attractive is not a valid argument, Shane.”
Shane opened his mouth, closed it again, and let out a frustrated, slightly hysterical breath as his brain scrambled for literally anything else to say.
He had one option left. One terrible, highly inappropriate option.
“I’ll pay you.”
Ilya blinked once. “…You’ll what?”
“I’ll pay you,” Shane repeated, straightening his spine, acting like committing harder somehow made this whole situation less humiliating. “For the trip. For your time. For pretending to actually like me in front of my family.”
A heavy, profound silence settled over the kitchen.
Shane knew Ilya needed the money.
Between the crushing weight of medical school tuition, the late-night bartending shifts, and whatever fresh, terrifying level of exhaustion he dragged home to their apartment every single week, Ilya was basically functioning on caffeine and pure spite alone.
“…How much?” Ilya asked finally, his voice low, cautious.
Shane answered entirely too quickly. “Whatever you want.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. He dragged a large hand slowly over his face, looking deeply, existentially tired of his own life choices. “You are going to regret this.”
“Almost certainly.”
“And I am going to enjoy making you suffer for it.”
Relief hit Shane’s chest so fast and so hard he almost smiled. “So you’re in.”
Ilya let out a long sigh, tipping his head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling for a second as if asking a higher power for patience, before looking back at Shane with piercing blue eyes.
“Fine. I’ll be your fake boyfriend. But only because med school is expensive, and I am desperately tired of serving cheap beer to finance majors every weekend.”
The crushing tension in Shane’s shoulders finally eased.
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.” Shane breathed out, offering a tentative smile before hesitating briefly. “Because we leave in three days.”
Ilya closed his eyes.
Fuck.