"Someone might notice my heart eyes."
"Your what?"
"Heart eyes. Hayden said I look at you with heart eyes. Was probably true. I look at you and I am just..." Ilya opened and closed his fist several times in front of his chest. "My heart goes crazy, you know?"
Nothing is Free (A Heated Rivalry Fan Fiction) - Chapter 1
(gif source: texasbama)
plot summary: Ilya Rozanov has learned that nothing is free—not shelter, not food, not kindness. Every favor comes with a price, and his body is the only currency he has. When a brutal night on the streets of Montreal puts him in the path of Shane Hollander, a wealthy stranger who refuses payment for his help, Ilya doesn’t trust it. He trusts transactions. He trusts survival. Shane Hollander has spent his life being careful—about his image, his future, and the expectations attached to his last name. As the heir to a powerful corporation, there is no room in his world for scandal, much less for falling in love with someone society would rather pretend doesn’t exist. As Shane and Ilya are drawn together, what begins as guarded proximity turns into something neither of them can afford. Ilya and Shane must decide whether love is worth the cost—and whether they’re willing to risk everything for it
warnings/notes: Like everyone, I am now obsessed with Heated Rivalry so I've been writing! I hope you enjoy because I have plenty ideas for this one! TW: sexual situations, prostitution, gay bashing
Chapter 1
The streets of Montreal were cold as Ilya Rozanov leaned against an abandoned warehouse, smoking a cigarette. It was a slow night. He’d only given two handjobs and done one alley quickie, and it had only made him three hundred dollars so far. If he didn’t do something soon, Marcus was going to kill him. Maybe literally. At the very least, beat his ass and deport him back to Russia, like he always threatened. The beating, Ilya could take. Going back home, he didn’t even want to think about.
Selling his body was easy. He was hot, he had a big dick, and he knew how to keep his head down. It was also the only thing he could do to earn money in Canada without papers. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if his life had been different. If his mother hadn’t died, if his father hadn’t kicked him out, if his brother hadn’t been an asshole. Maybe he wouldn’t have scraped together just enough money to buy a plane ticket on the first flight out of Russia to Toronto. Maybe he wouldn’t have sucked off some guy he met at the airport just for train fare that only got him as far as Montreal. A lot of things would have been different. But he didn’t want to dwell on it.
The cold started to bite into his palms as he pulled out another cigarette. It was the only thing keeping him remotely warm. He threw the butt of the old one onto the ground and put the new one in his mouth. As he tried to get his lighter to spark, he heard footsteps approaching. He looked to his left and a man in a backwards cap and hoodie followed by another in a jersey walked towards him, eyes never leaving his.
“Can I borrow your light, buddy?” the one in the hoodie asked.
Ilya didn’t have time to answer before a punch slammed into his right cheek, knocking him to the ground. Great. Looks like I’m getting mugged again. Marcus was really going to kill him now. The kick to his ribs made him curl in on himself, a reflexive defense that did nothing against the second blow. Pain exploded through his abdomen. His lighter clattered across the pavement, disappearing into shadow.
"Fucking faggot," the guy in the jersey spat, delivering another kick that caught Ilya's shoulder. "You think we don't know what you do here?"
Ilya tasted blood. His mouth had hit the concrete when he fell. He tried to push himself up, but a boot pressed down on his back, pinning him to the cold ground.
"Empty your pockets," Hoodie demanded, crouching beside him. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cigarettes. "Now."
Ilya's heart hammered in his chest. The three hundred was tucked into his sock—a habit he'd learned after his first mugging. But his phone was in his back pocket. Marcus had given him that phone. Tracking, he called it. Making sure his investment was where it should be.
"I don't have money," Ilya said.
Jersey laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the empty street. "Bullshit. We've been watching you. Three johns tonight." He pressed harder with his boot. "You think we're stupid?"
The cold bit into Ilya's cheek where it pressed against the pavement. He could feel a bruise forming where the first punch had landed. Blood trickled from his split lip.
"Check his pockets," Jersey ordered.
Rough hands patted him down, digging into his jeans. Hoodie pulled out his phone and the twenty dollars he kept in his front pocket as decoy money.
"This all you got?" Hoodie sounded disappointed, dangling the bill in front of Ilya's face. "Where's the rest?"
"That's all," Ilya lied. His ribs throbbed with each breath. "I swear."
Jersey crouched down, grabbing a fistful of Ilya's hair and yanking his head up. "You know what happens to lying whores?"
Ilya didn't answer. There was no right answer to that question. He'd learned that much in his time on the streets.
"I asked you a question," Jersey growled, twisting Ilya's hair harder.
Pain shot across Ilya's scalp. The taste of copper filled his mouth as his split lip continued to bleed. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper.
A crack of footsteps on pavement, then a voice cut through the night air.
"Hey! What the hell is going on over there?"
The grip on Ilya's hair loosened as Jersey's head snapped up. A tall figure approached from the street, silhouetted against the distant glow of a streetlamp.
"None of your business, man," Hoodie called back, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.
The newcomer stepped closer, and the dim light revealed an expensive wool coat, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never needed to fear walking alone at night.
“Three against one seems like poor odds,” the man said. "How about you take off before I call the police? I've already got dispatch on the line." He held up a phone, screen illuminated.
Jersey hesitated, then spat on the ground near Ilya's face. "Fuck this. Not worth it." He nudged Hoodie. "Come on."
"But we—" Hoodie started.
"I said let's go!" Jersey hissed, already backing away.
Ilya lay still, tasting blood and grit, as his attackers retreated down the alley, their footsteps fading into the night. His phone and twenty dollars went with them.
"Can you stand?" The stranger knelt beside him, close enough now that Ilya could see his face—young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of clean-cut good looks that belonged on magazine covers.
Ilya pushed himself up, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. "I'm fine." His accent thickened with pain.
"You don't look fine."
Ilya managed to get to his feet and wobbled. He held onto his side looking around to see if anyone was on the street. “I’m fine,” he said again, “You should go.”
"You need a hospital," the man said, his eyes scanning Ilya's face, lingering on the blood at his lip.
Ilya shook his head. "No hospitals." No insurance, no documentation, no way to explain to Marcus why he'd gone to an ER instead of making money. “Just go. Thank you.”
The man frowned. “What were you even doing out here? There are only deserted buildings on this block.”
Ilya tried to smirk, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “What do you think?”
The man's expression changed, understanding dawning in his eyes. He didn't look disgusted or pitying—just thoughtful. Ilya had seen enough reactions to last a lifetime. He didn't need this stranger's judgment too.
The man offered his hand—manicured nails, no calluses. "I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."
The name tickled something in Ilya's memory. He'd seen it in newspaper headlines, heard it mentioned on the business reports that played in the corner bodega. Hollander Industries. The tech conglomerate with headquarters downtown. Ilya hesitated before taking the outstretched hand. It was warm and firm, steadying him as another wave of pain radiated through his side.
"You need ice for that face," Shane said, his gaze lingering on Ilya's bruised cheek. "And probably those ribs too."
"I'll be fine," Ilya muttered, though the throbbing in his side suggested otherwise. He needed to get back to work. The night was still young, and Marcus expected a full take. "Thank you for help, but I go now."
Shane frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. "At least let me drive you somewhere safe. My car's just around the corner."
The offer hung between them in the cold night air. Ilya had learned the hard way not to trust strangers with nice clothes and kind words. They always wanted something. But he supposed he owed Shane for saving him. If he put more effort into the sex, Shane would probably pay a decent amount that would make Marcus happy.
"No hospitals," Ilya repeated, more firmly this time.
"No hospitals," Shane agreed, nodding. "Just somewhere to clean up. Maybe get some food?"
Ilya studied Shane's face for a moment, searching for deception, for the predatory gleam he'd learned to spot in his clients' eyes. He found nothing but genuine concern, which was somehow more unsettling than outright hunger would have been.
"Okay," he said finally, wincing as he straightened. "Food sounds good."
Shane nodded and gestured toward the street. "This way."
Each step sent fresh pain radiating through Ilya's ribs. He tried not to limp, not to show weakness, but his body betrayed him. The cold air stung his split lip, and he could feel his right eye beginning to swell. Those assholes had done a number on him.
Shane's car was not what Ilya expected. He'd assumed a luxury sedan, something sleek and German, but instead, a modest blue Volvo waited at the curb. Clean, well-maintained, but nothing flashy.
"Here," Shane said, opening the passenger door.
The interior smelled of leather and faint cologne—expensive, but not overpowering. Ilya lowered himself carefully onto the seat, trying not to get blood on the upholstery.
"There's tissues in the glove compartment," Shane said as he walked around to the driver's side.
Ilya found them and dabbed at his lip, the white paper coming away stained red. Shane slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The heat kicked on almost immediately, blowing warm air that made Ilya's cold skin tingle.
"There's a diner about ten minutes from here," Shane said, pulling away from the curb. "Open all night. Good food, private booths."
Ilya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind raced with calculations. How much time would this detour take? It would be easier if Shane just took him to his house and they fucked already. How angry would Marcus be? The three hundred dollars pressed against his ankle inside his sock, the only money he had left after those bastards took his decoy cash.
The car moved smoothly through nearly empty streets. Montreal after midnight was a different city—quieter, darker, with shadows that seemed to breathe. Ilya watched the buildings slide past, brick and concrete giving way to more populated areas as they left the warehouse district behind.
"You're Russian?" Shane asked, breaking the silence.
"Yes." Ilya kept his answer short. The less people knew about him, the better.
Shane nodded, not pushing for more. "I spent a semester in Moscow during college. Beautiful architecture."
Ilya almost laughed. His Moscow had nothing to do with beautiful architecture. His Moscow was cramped apartments and suspicious neighbors and his father's fists. But he just made a noncommittal sound and continued staring out the window.
***
The diner appeared ahead, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness. A neon sign buzzed above the entrance, letters spelling out "LUCKY'S" in electric blue. Shane pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and cut the engine.
"Wait here a second," he said, then exited the car before Ilya could respond.
Ilya watched through the windshield as Shane walked around to his side. The man opened the passenger door, offering his hand again. Ilya ignored it, pushing himself up with a grimace. His ribs protested the movement, sending a sharp pain through his side.
"I can walk," he muttered.
The diner’s warmth hit him as they entered, along with the smell of coffee and grease. A tired-looking waitress glanced up from behind the counter, her eyes widening slightly at Ilya’s battered face before smoothing into professional indifference.
"Booth in the back okay?" Shane asked.
Ilya nodded, following him to a corner booth far from the few other patrons. The vinyl seat squeaked as he slid in, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his ribs.
"Coffee?" The waitress appeared beside them, coffeepot in hand.
"Please," Shane said. "Two cups." He looked at Ilya. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"Coffee is good," Ilya said, watching the steaming liquid pour into the white mug. His tongue probed his split lip, testing the damage.
The waitress set menus in front of them and left. Ilya stared at the laminated pages without really seeing them. The adrenaline was wearing off, and exhaustion was settling into his bones. His ribs throbbed with each breath.
"You should put some ice on that," Shane said, nodding toward Ilya's face. He flagged down the waitress. "Could we get some ice in a clean towel, please?"
The waitress nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Ilya shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't used to being fussed over.
"Thank you," Ilya said quietly, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug. The heat seeped into his palms, a small comfort against the pain radiating through his body. He took a cautious sip, wincing as the hot liquid touched his split lip.
Shane watched him from across the table, his expression unreadable. "You should eat something. It'll help."
Ilya skimmed the menu, calculating prices against his needs. Even cheap diner food was an expense he couldn't afford tonight. "I'm not hungry."
"My treat," Shane said, as if reading his thoughts. "Order whatever you want."
The waitress returned with a towel-wrapped bundle of ice. Shane thanked her and slid it across the table. Ilya pressed it gingerly against his cheekbone, hissing slightly at the contact.
"Ready to order?" the waitress asked, pen poised over her notepad.
"I'll have the Denver omelet," Shane said. "And my friend will have..." He looked at Ilya expectantly.
"Cheeseburger," Ilya said. "Medium. With fries."
The waitress nodded and walked away. Silence settled between them, broken only by the clink of mugs and the distant sizzle of the grill.
"So," Shane finally said, "do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"
The question caught Ilya off guard. No one had asked him that in a long time. He adjusted the ice pack against his swelling cheek, buying time before answering.
"I have place," he lied. He had a room in the house Marcus kept for his "workers," but showing up empty-handed wasn't an option. Tonight he'd likely find a 24-hour café to hide in until morning, when he could try again.
Shane studied him with an intensity that made Ilya uncomfortable. Those eyes saw too much.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Shane said. “But I don’t think you do. Plus those guys took your money, right? And your phone?”
Ilya's hand instinctively moved to his empty pocket. The loss of the phone was worse than the beating. Marcus tracked that phone.
"I have some left," Ilya said, his fingers finding the outline of the bills hidden in his sock. "It's enough."
Their food arrived before Shane could respond. The burger was massive, topped with melted cheese and accompanied by a mountain of fries. Ilya's stomach growled loudly, betraying him.
"Eat," Shane encouraged, gesturing toward the plate. "You need it."
Ilya didn't need to be told twice. He took a bite of the burger, the flavors exploding on his tongue. When was the last time he'd had a proper meal? Not the cheap ramen and expired sandwiches Marcus kept stocked in the house. He ate with controlled urgency, trying not to seem too desperate.
Shane picked at his omelet, watching Ilya with that same thoughtful expression. "How long have you been in Montreal?"
Ilya swallowed a mouthful of fries. "Eight months."
"And before that?"
"Toronto. For two weeks." Ilya took another bite of his burger. The meat was juicy, perfectly cooked. He could almost forget the pain in his ribs, the throbbing in his face.
Shane nodded, not pressing further. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the soft clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversation from the other diners.
"I have an extra room," Shane said suddenly. "In my apartment."
Ilya's hand froze halfway to his mouth, a fry dangling between his fingers. "What?"
"You need somewhere to stay tonight. I have space." Shane's voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were offering directions, not shelter.
Ilya thought for a moment. So this guy wanted an extended session? He could be fine with that. But only the first fuck with be free, as a thank you. He still needed the money. “Okay.”
Shane looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing as he set his fork down. "Great. I live downtown, about fifteen minutes from here."
Ilya nodded, wondering what kind of place a man like Shane Hollander would have. Probably one of those fancy high-rises with doormen and security cameras. The thought made him nervous. Places like that kept records, asked questions.
"I will need to leave early," Ilya said carefully, testing the waters. "In morning."
Shane shrugged. "That's fine. I have meetings tomorrow anyway." He took a sip of his coffee. "You can stay as long as you need to recover, though. The guest room has its own bathroom."
Guest room? Ilya's brow furrowed slightly. So Shane wanted to pretend this was just hospitality? Some clients liked to play games, act like they were just being nice before they expected payment. It was fine. Ilya could play along.
They finished their meals in companionable silence. The burger sat warm and heavy in Ilya's stomach, the best thing he'd eaten in weeks. When the waitress brought the check, Shane handed over a credit card without even looking at the total.
***
Shane’s apartment building rose like a gleaming monument to wealth, all glass and steel against the night sky. Ilya stood in the elevator, trying not to stare at his own reflection in the polished walls. His face looked worse than he'd expected—right eye swollen, lip split and crusted with dried blood, a bruise darkening his cheek. He kept his gaze fixed on the numbered buttons as they lit up one by one, climbing higher than he'd ever been in Montreal.
The elevator doors slid open on the twenty-third floor. Shane stepped out first, keys already in hand, and Ilya followed, his boots silent on the plush carpet of the hallway. Only two doors occupied this floor.
"Home sweet home," Shane said, unlocking the left one.
Ilya stepped inside and froze. The space that opened before him wasn't just an apartment—it was something from a magazine, all clean lines and soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city like a personal light show, Montreal's skyline glittering against the night.
"You can leave your shoes by the door," Shane said, already toeing off his own.
Ilya bent down carefully to unlace his boots, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting through his ribs. The hardwood floor felt warm beneath his sock-covered feet—heated floors, he realized. Of course.
"Let me show you to the guest room," Shane said, leading him past an open kitchen with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting.
The guest room was larger than Ilya's entire living space at Marcus's house. A queen-sized bed dominated the space, covered in what looked like actual linen, not the cheap polyester sheets he was used to. A door to the right revealed an en suite bathroom with gleaming tile and a glass-walled shower.
"Towels are in the cabinet under the sink," Shane said, leaning against the doorframe. "There should be new toothbrushes in there too."
Ilya stood awkwardly in the center of the room, still holding the side where his ribs ached. "This is... very nice."
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll get you something for the pain and some clean clothes." Shane disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps fading on the hardwood floor.
Ilya moved cautiously to the edge of the bed and sat down. The mattress gave beneath his weight, soft but supportive. He ran his hand over the duvet, feeling the smooth fabric against his palm. A clock on the bedside table read 1:37 AM. Marcus would be furious by now.
Shane returned with a small bottle of pills and a stack of folded clothes. "Ibuprofen," he said, setting the bottle on the nightstand. "And some sweatpants and a t-shirt. They'll probably be a bit small on you, but they should work for sleeping."
"Thanks." Ilya accepted the clothes, his fingers brushing against Shane's. "I'll just..." He gestured toward the bathroom.
"Take your time," Shane said, heading for the door. "I'll be down the hall if you need anything else."
Shane left. Ilya winced as he stood and made his way to the bathroom. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, his injuries looked even worse. The bruise on his cheekbone had darkened to a deep purple, and dried blood crusted around his split lip. He looked like shit, but he'd looked worse and still worked.
The shower was complicated—all chrome fixtures and multiple settings—but he figured it out after a minute of fiddling. Hot water cascaded over him, and he closed his eyes, letting it soothe his aching muscles. He found expensive-looking body wash and shampoo on a built-in shelf and used both liberally, watching dirt and dried blood spiral down the drain.
When he finally stepped out, steam had fogged the mirror. He wiped a clear spot with his palm and stared at his reflection. Clean now, but still battered. Still Ilya. Still a whore who owed Marcus money.
Ilya examined the clothes Shane had given him, running his fingers over the soft fabric. He set them on the counter, untouched. This was the transaction he understood—why pretend otherwise? The rich man had saved him, fed him, brought him home. Now came payment.
He dried himself carefully, wincing as the towel brushed against his bruised ribs.
Naked, Ilya padded silently down the hallway. The apartment was quiet except for soft sounds coming from what must be Shane's bedroom. The door was partially open, a slice of warm light spilling into the corridor. Ilya took a deep breath, squared his shoulders despite the pain, and pushed the door open.
Shane was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt in his hands. Ilya immediately noticed that Shane wasn’t just good looking with his dark hair and freckles, he also had a nice body. Sculpted torso that wasn’t too muscular but he definitely worked out, hard arm muscles, and a V-line that disappeared below his pajama bottoms. At least he’d have something nice to look at during the transaction, which was more than he usually got.
"I forgot to tell you—" Shane's words died as his eyes widened, taking in Ilya's naked form. "What are you doing?"
"I come to thank you," he said. "For helping me."
He swatted the T-shirt out of Shane’s hands and straddled him. Moved his hands down Shane’s torso tugging at the him of his pants as he started to kiss his neck.
Shane moaned despite himself. “N-no…stop. You don’t have to do this.”
Ilya forced his lips into what he hoped was a seductive smile. “That’s not what you want,” Ilya said. He could feel Shane getting hard underneath him. He continued to kiss up his neck. He let his tongue run over Shane’s earlobe making the other man shiver. He grew harder underneath Ilya.
Shane's hands clamped down on Ilya's hips, not pulling him closer but holding him in place. "Stop." His voice was firmer now, all traces of that earlier moan gone. "This isn't why I brought you here."
Ilya froze, confusion washing over him. The hardness he'd felt beneath him contradicted Shane's words. He'd done this dance countless times—knew when a man wanted him. And Shane definitely wanted him.
"I don't understand," Ilya said, not moving from Shane's lap. "You save me, feed me, bring me to your home..." He gestured to the luxurious bedroom around them. "What else you want?"
"I want you to get some rest and recover," Shane said, his voice gentler now but still firm. His hands remained on Ilya's hips, keeping a careful distance between their bodies. "Not this."
Shane steadied him, careful not to touch anywhere inappropriate. "Here," he said, reaching for a throw blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapping it around Ilya's shoulders. "Get dressed. Get some sleep. We can figure everything else out in the morning."
Ilya clutched the blanket around himself, suddenly feeling more exposed than he had in years of selling his body. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Especially not with rich, handsome men who lived in penthouses.
Ilya backed away, clutching the blanket tighter. His foot hit something solid—the edge of the doorframe. He turned quickly, ignoring the sharp pain in his side, and made his way back to the guest room, the plush carpet soft beneath his feet.
Once inside the guest room, Ilya shut the door and leaned against it, his heart hammering in his chest. The blanket scratched against his skin as he slid down to the floor, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.
Shane had rejected him. Shane had been hard—Ilya hadn't imagined that—but he'd still said no. The confusion felt worse than the physical pain radiating from his ribs.
He sat there for several minutes, trying to understand. Maybe Shane was one of those guys who liked to pretend they were above paying for sex? Or maybe this was some kind of power play—make Ilya beg for it first?
The clothes Shane had given him lay where he'd left them on the bathroom counter. Ilya finally pushed himself up from the floor, wincing as his bruised body protested the movement. He pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt, both slightly too small as Shane had predicted. The soft fabric clung to his still-damp skin.
His $300 was still safely tucked inside his discarded sock. He retrieved it, counting the bills twice before hiding them under the mattress. Not the most original hiding spot, but it would do for one night.
The bed looked impossibly inviting. When was the last time he'd slept on a real mattress, with clean sheets and a proper pillow? The beds at Marcus's house were cheap foam affairs that smelled of other men's sweat and cologne.
Ilya swallowed two ibuprofen tablets dry, then carefully lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress yielded beneath him, cradling his battered body. He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the subtle patterns in the white paint as his mind continued to work.
What did Shane want from him if not sex? Everyone wanted something. That was the one truth Ilya had learned since coming to Canada—nothing was free. Especially not for someone like him.
The quiet of the apartment pressed against his ears. No sirens, no shouting, no creaking floorboards as other workers brought clients back to their rooms. Just silence, broken only by the faint hum of the heating system.
His eyes grew heavy despite his racing thoughts. The combination of warm shower, full stomach, and pain medication was pulling him toward sleep. He tried to fight it—he needed to figure out what to do about Marcus, about the lost phone, about Shane's strange behavior—but exhaustion won out.
Ilya's last thought before drifting off was that he'd never felt sheets this soft against his skin.
***
The smell of coffee woke him. Ilya blinked into consciousness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Sunlight streamed through a gap in heavy curtains he didn't remember closing. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:17 AM.
He sat up too quickly and hissed as pain shot through his side. The events of the previous night came flooding back—his bruised ribs, his split lip, the mugging, the diner, Shane's rejection.
Ilya swung his legs over the side of the bed, moving gingerly to accommodate his injuries. The sweatpants had ridden up during the night, exposing his ankles. He tugged them down, then ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His mouth tasted stale, and his stubble rasped against his palm.
The bathroom mirror revealed that his face looked marginally better in daylight. The swelling around his eye had gone down, though the bruise on his cheekbone had darkened to a deeper purple. His split lip had scabbed over during the night. He looked rough, but functional. He'd worked looking worse.
After brushing his teeth with one of the new toothbrushes Shane had mentioned, Ilya retrieved his money from under the mattress and tucked it into the pocket of the borrowed sweatpants. He'd need to get back to his own clothes soon—and figure out what to tell Marcus about the missing phone.
The smell of coffee grew stronger when he opened the bedroom door. He followed it down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The morning light transformed the apartment, revealing details he'd missed in the darkness—framed photographs on the walls, a collection of leather-bound books on built-in shelves, a sleek sound system in the corner of the living room.
Shane stood at the kitchen island, dressed in a crisp blue button-down and dark slacks, scrolling through something on a tablet while sipping from a mug. A laptop sat open beside him. He looked up when Ilya entered, his expression brightening.
"You're up," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Ilya shrugged, then regretted the movement as pain flared in his side. "Better."
"Coffee?" Shane gestured to a high-end coffee machine on the counter. "There's also orange juice in the fridge, and I was about to make some eggs."
Ilya nodded toward the coffee. "Coffee is good."
Shane reached for a mug from an overhead cabinet and filled it from the coffee machine. "Milk? Sugar?"
"Black is fine." Ilya accepted the mug, their fingers brushing briefly during the exchange. He remembered the feel of those hands on his hips last night, holding him in place rather than pulling him closer.
"Sit," Shane said, nodding toward the stools at the island. "You look better, but still like you got hit by a truck."
Ilya perched on one of the stools, cradling the mug between his palms. The coffee was strong and rich, nothing like the watery stuff Marcus kept in the house. “Do you not like to fuck?” he asked after his first sip.
Shane almost dropped the eggs he was about to crack into a bowl. “What?”
"I mean," Ilya clarified, taking another sip of his coffee, "last night. You didn't want..."
"That's not—" Shane set the eggs down and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “I didn’t bring you here for that.”
Ilya stared at him, searching for the lie. "But you were hard."
Shane's cheeks flushed pink beneath his freckles. He looked away, busying himself with cracking eggs into a bowl. "That's... not relevant.”
Ilya watched Shane whisk the eggs with quick, practiced movements. "So you do like to fuck," Ilya concluded, "just not with me."
Shane sighed, setting the whisk down. "That's not what I said. I just don't... look, I don't make a habit of sleeping with people who feel obligated to offer themselves as payment."
"Is not obligation," Ilya said, frowning. "Is transaction. Fair exchange."
"That's the thing," Shane replied, pouring the eggs into a heated pan. "I don't want a transaction with you."
Ilya's frown deepened. If Shane didn't want a transaction, what did he want? It didn't make sense.
"I should go," Ilya said abruptly. "Need to get back to... work."
Shane turned from the stove, spatula in hand. "You can't be serious. You're hurt, your phone's gone, and those guys might still be out there."
"Marcus will be angry about phone," Ilya muttered, more to himself than to Shane.
"Marcus?" Shane asked, his voice carefully neutral as he turned back to the eggs, folding them with the spatula.
Ilya cursed himself for the slip. "My... roommate."
"Your roommate," Shane repeated flatly. "The one who'll be angry about your phone."
The way Shane said it made it clear he didn't believe the lie. Ilya took another sip of coffee to avoid responding.
Shane divided the eggs between two plates and added toast to each. He slid one plate in front of Ilya. "Eat first, at least. Then we can figure out what to do next."
Ilya stared at the food. The eggs looked fluffy and perfect, the toast golden-brown. His stomach growled, betraying him again. He picked up the fork and took a bite. The eggs were perfectly seasoned, fluffy and warm. He couldn't remember the last time someone had cooked for him.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the words feeling strange on his tongue.
Shane leaned against the counter, eating his own breakfast. "You're welcome."
They ate in silence for a few moments. Ilya finished his eggs quickly, hunger overriding his confusion about the situation. The toast was crisp and buttery.
"I need my clothes," Ilya said when he'd emptied his plate. "And I need to go."
Shane set his fork down. "At least let me drive you. Wherever you need to go."
Ilya considered the offer. His side still ached with every movement, and the thought of walking across Montreal in this condition made him wince internally. But accepting more help felt dangerous, like sinking deeper into a debt he couldn't repay—especially since Shane had refused the only currency Ilya had to offer.
“No, I need to go.” He couldn’t be seen getting out of Shane’s car with no money to show for it. Marcus would only be more furious.
"Okay," Shane said after a moment, his voice tight. He pushed away from the counter. "I'll get your clothes from the dryer. I washed them last night while you were sleeping."
Ilya blinked. "You washed my clothes?"
"They had blood on them," Shane said simply, disappearing down a hallway.
Ilya sat there, stunned. No one had washed his clothes since... since his mother. He ran his finger along the edge of his empty plate, unsure what to make of this strange man who saved him, fed him, rejected him, and now had laundered his bloodstained clothes.
Shane returned with Ilya's jeans, t-shirt, and jacket, all folded neatly. They smelled like expensive detergent. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change."
Ilya took the clothes and retreated to the guest bathroom. It made no sense. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this kind of... kindness? Was that what this was? He changed quickly, wincing as he pulled the t-shirt over his tender ribs. The clothes felt different somehow—softer, warmer. He folded Shane's borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt, leaving them on the bathroom counter.
When he emerged, Shane was standing by the front door, holding something in his hand. Ilya approached cautiously.
"Before you go," Shane said, "take this." He held out a sleek black smartphone. "It's my backup. I don't use it."
Ilya stared at the device. "I can't—"
"You can," Shane interrupted. "You need a phone. This one's just sitting in a drawer otherwise."
Ilya didn't move to take it. "Why are you doing this?"
Shane's expression softened. "Because I can. Because it might help." He pressed the phone into Ilya's palm. "I put my number in it. If those guys come back, or if you need... anything. Just call."
Ilya's fingers closed around the phone automatically. It felt expensive, heavy with technology he probably didn't understand. He tried to push it back. "No, I can't take this."
Shane stepped back, refusing to accept the return. "Please. It would make me feel better knowing you have it."
Ilya hesitated, then slipped the phone into his pocket. He'd figure out what to tell Marcus later. Maybe he could hide it, use it only when necessary.
"Thank you," he said, the words still awkward on his tongue.
Shane nodded, then paused, his brow furrowing. "I just realized—I never asked your name."
Ilya looked up, meeting those kind eyes that had somehow seen him as more than just a body for sale. "Ilya," he said quietly.
"Ilya," Shane repeated, as if testing the name.
Something warm stirred in Ilya's chest at the way Shane said his name—not mangled with a Canadian accent, but with care, the syllables given proper weight. He pushed the feeling away. Getting attached to a kind stranger wouldn't help his situation.
"I should go," he said, reaching for the door handle.
Shane stepped back, giving him space. "The elevator code is 2398. You'll need it to get down."
Ilya nodded, committing the numbers to memory. He hesitated at the threshold, unsure what else to say. Thank you seemed inadequate for everything Shane had done, but he had nothing else to offer that Shane would accept.
"Take care of yourself, Ilya," Shane said softly.
"You too," Ilya managed, then stepped into the hallway, not looking back as the door closed behind him.
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