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Shane wakes him before the sky begins to change.
Lights dim enough that the room feels suspended in time, Shane warm and close, voice low and thoughtful as he talks about the future like it’s something already unfolding—small things, practical things, things that sound an awful lot like staying.
Ilya listens. He always has.
When the words finally come—soft, unguarded, inevitable—they don’t land like a revelation. They settle. I love you spoken and returned without ceremony, as if they’ve simply named something that had always been there.
They don’t go back to sleep.
Ilya steps outside, the dark sky intact, the air cool and damp, the water still and patient. He finds a rock near the water’s edge and sits, solid and balanced, the world reduced to quiet movement and breath.
A slow calm has settled over him, steady and unshakable. The water laps against the shore, soft as a heartbeat, and Ilya lets the moment stretch.
He thinks of his mother.
Not suddenly. She’s been there all along, threaded through the way he understands joy and restraint and loyalty. He doesn’t reach for memory so much as presence.
Mama, he thinks, the word smooth and familiar, resting easily in his mind. He imagines her presence there, just beyond the horizon, warm and attentive. I found him.
He tells her, not out loud, but in the quiet language of his mind, about Shane. How Shane makes him feel seen in ways no one except her ever has. How being with Shane feels effortless, like breathing in a place he’s always known but never noticed before. How everything fits—not in grand gestures, but in the small, steady moments. How safe it feels, how right it feels, how it’s the first time someone hasn’t demanded pieces of himself he couldn’t spare.
He tells her about Shane’s laugh, how it shifts the air around him, how even in silence he feels the weight and warmth of his presence. About the way Shane looks at him, like he understands every corner of him, every fear, every quiet longing, without judgment or rush. About the little gestures—touches, glances, the soft ease of being together—that make every ordinary moment feel infinite.
Finally, he tells her about the love they share—how it’s mutual, how it’s steady, how it reaches him in ways he never expected. How Shane gives as much as he receives, how their care is patient, unforced, and real. We love each other, mama, he thinks, letting the words settle in his mind. And it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
The sky lightens almost imperceptibly, darkness giving way to light.
He imagines how she would look at Shane—assessing, approving, unafraid of affection. His mother never wasted time pretending not to care; she saw everything, weighed everything, and let the truth in front of her speak for itself. He pictures her studying Shane, noticing the little ways he offers himself without hesitation, the way he moves through the world with care, the way he notices Ilya, the quiet attentions no one else would see. She would see it all.
Ilya feels the fullness of it: her blessing, her approval, and the quiet joy of knowing that the man who holds his heart could have held hers too, had the world allowed it.
Ilya smiles faintly, alone with the water and the growing light. There is comfort in knowing that this, too, makes sense. That nothing has had to be forced into place.
Thank you, mama, he thinks, the words simple but full, carrying the weight of everything he feels. Gratitude given where it belongs, for the guidance she never could have known she was giving, for the pieces of himself she left behind that made this possible. For Shane. For the quiet, steady certainty of being seen and met. For the warmth that fills him now, the kind that comes from being fully known, fully loved.
The sun edges higher, gold threading across the surface of the water, and Ilya breathes in slowly, letting the warmth settle into him. This is a moment worth keeping. One he will remember not for its intensity, but for it’s steadiness.
Shane’s soft footsteps pull Ilya from his reverie. He drapes the blanket around him, his presence steady and grounding—quiet confirmation rather than interruption.
Coffee warms his hands, but it’s the silence between them that radiates within him: the world paused, the day breaking, love spoken this time without words.