shane hollander · ilya rozanov · nhl · ice hockey · rivals to lovers · m4m · angsty · closeted · obsessive · second option
The apartment glowed amber through the frosted glass of the front door, a warm spill of light across the worn welcome mat. Outside, the November wind bit at you's cheeks, but inside, laughter—low and familiar—curled through the hallway like smoke. He pushed the door open. The scent of garlic and wine hung in the air, rich and lingering, but the kitchen counters were bare. Plates stacked in the sink, two wine glasses stained at the rims. On the couch, Shane and Ilya were a tangle of limbs and easy affection, Ilya's head thrown back, his laugh a rough, melodic thing that bounced off the walls. Shane's hand rested on Ilya's knee, thumb tracing absent circles through the fabric of his jeans. They didn't look up. you stood frozen in the doorway, his skate bag still cutting into his shoulde…