The Way We Wake Up
Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Reader x Shane Hollander
Word Count: 1539
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Ilya Rozanov Playlist
Ilya Rozanov Imagines ( I’ve added all my Ilya fics on Wattpad, so if you’d like to read more, feel free to check them out! I’ll leave the link here 💗)
Morning light makes everything softer.
The kitchen smells like butter and coffee and something warm turning golden in the pan. You’re barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing one of Shane’s oversized T-shirts because it’s the first thing your hand found and you like the way it hangs off your shoulder.
The house is quiet except for the gentle sizzle of eggs.
You’re flipping a pancake when you hear footsteps upstairs,two different rhythms, one careful and one lazy. Shane’s is measured, like he’s already thinking about the day. Ilya’s is confident, almost bouncing, like gravity is negotiable.
You don’t turn right away.
You smile into the steam rising from your mug.
Then you hear Ilya’s voice, warm and sleepy.
“Ох… смотрите.” Oh… look.
Shane’s voice follows, low, fond. “What are you doing?”
You glance over your shoulder. Both of them are at the bottom of the stairs.
Shane is in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still a little messy, blinking like he’s still waking up. Ilya is in just a T-shirt and shorts, hair sticking up in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Neither of them has fully entered the kitchen yet, like they’re paused in the doorway just watching you.
Your chest tightens in that gentle, domestic way that feels like home.
“Making breakfast,” you say simply, as if it isn’t obvious.
Ilya steps into the kitchen first, drawn by the smell and the sight of you like he has no choice. Shane follows slower, more cautious, but his eyes don’t leave you.
“I thought you were asleep,” Shane says.
“I was,” you reply. “Then I woke up and realized I wanted pancakes.”
Ilya makes a pleased sound. “Good choice.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You’re actually cooking?”
You glare at him playfully. “Excuse me?”
He holds his hands up. “No, no. I just,last time you tried to cook, you almost set off the smoke alarm.”
“That was one time,” you protest.
Ilya grins. “It was iconic.”
“It was traumatic,” Shane corrects.
“You both survived,” you say, turning back to the stove. “So clearly I’m improving.”
Ilya drifts closer behind you, and you feel his presence before he touches you. His hands settle lightly on your hips, and he leans in to press his face into your neck.
“You smell like soap,” he murmurs.
“And butter,” you add.
He hums, like that’s perfect. Then he says softly, in Russian, “Ты такая красивая утром.” You’re so beautiful in the morning.
You freeze for half a second.
Shane pauses mid-step, looking between you and Ilya.
You turn your head just enough to glance at Ilya. “What did you say?”
Ilya’s lips curve, pleased with himself. “I said you’re beautiful in the morning.”
You swallow, warmth blooming in your chest. “In Russian.”
“Yes.”
Shane snorts softly. “Of course.”
Ilya looks at him like he’s offended. “What? It’s romantic.”
“It’s suspicious,” Shane replies automatically.
You laugh. “It is a little suspicious.”
Ilya clicks his tongue. “Fine. I will do English. You are beautiful in morning. Happy?”
Shane nods. “Less suspicious.”
Ilya looks at you, eyes bright. “But Russian is better.”
“Why?” you ask, flipping a pancake.
He shrugs, voice dropping. “Feels more… honest.”
That makes Shane go quiet for a second.
You feel it,the way the room shifts when emotion sneaks in. It always does, with you three. It’s never loud. Just… present.
You slide pancakes onto a plate. “Okay. Then say something else.”
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “You want more?”
“Yes,” you say calmly. “I want more.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Okay.”
He leans closer again, hands still on your hips, and murmurs, “Ты моё солнце.” You’re my sunshine.
You blink, smiling despite yourself. “That’s cute.”
Shane clears his throat. “Do I get a translation for that one too?”
Ilya looks at him, deadpan. “No.”
Shane’s mouth twitches. “Rude.”
Ilya gestures vaguely. “She is sunshine. You are… Canadian cloud.”
Shane stares at him. “I’m sorry?”
You laugh, nearly dropping the spatula. “Canadian cloud?”
Ilya nods seriously. “Yes. Always serious. Always gray.”
Shane points at you. “See? This is what I deal with.”
“You love him,” you say sweetly.
Shane exhales like he’s resigned. “Unfortunately.”
Ilya looks offended. “Unfortunately?”
Shane walks to the counter and steals a piece of bacon. “You’re unbearable in the morning.”
Ilya leans over your shoulder, whispering, “He is flirting.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m eating.”
“You always flirt when you eat,” Ilya says.
Shane chews and glares at him.
You set a plate in front of Shane. “Sit.”
Shane obeys immediately, because he’s disciplined like that. Then he looks up at you, expression softening.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says.
You tilt your head. “I wanted to.”
Shane’s gaze flicks to your shirt. “Is that mine?”
You glance down. “Yes.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Okay.”
Ilya scoffs. “He likes when you wear his clothes.”
Shane looks at Ilya. “You like when she wears yours too.”
Ilya smirks. “Yes. But I don’t pretend I don’t.”
You turn, pointing the spatula at them. “Both of you stop. Eat.”
Ilya slides into the chair beside Shane but keeps his hand on your thigh as you move around the kitchen. Like he needs contact to stay grounded.
Shane watches you quietly.
“You’re smiling,” you point out to him.
He blinks. “Am I?”
“Yes,” you say. “Why?”
Shane glances down at his plate, then back at you. “It’s just… nice.”
Ilya makes a soft sound. “He means domestic.”
Shane shoots him a look. “I mean calm.”
Ilya shrugs. “Same thing.”
You place a plate in front of Ilya. “Eat. No commentary.”
He looks at the food, impressed. “This is actually good.”
“Thank you,” you say.
He grins. “Поварёнок.” Little chef.
You narrow your eyes. “Is that an insult?”
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s cute.”
Shane mutters, “He’s going to make Russian your love language.”
“I’m not complaining,” you admit.
Shane points his fork at you. “You will when he starts saying things you can’t translate.”
Ilya smirks. “Too late.”
You sit between them with your own coffee, the warmth of their shoulders on either side of you. It’s a simple moment,breakfast, sleepy smiles, a quiet morning,but it feels like something you want to keep forever.
Shane takes a bite and nods. “Okay. These pancakes are actually good.”
You grin. “Told you.”
Ilya chews thoughtfully, then says, “I approve.”
Shane glances at him. “You approve?”
“Yes.”
Shane’s mouth twitches. “Like a king.”
Ilya nods. “Exactly.”
You laugh. “You two are impossible.”
Shane looks at you, eyes soft. “And you love us.”
You pause.
Because he says it so simply. So sure.
You nod. “Yeah. I do.”
Ilya leans closer, his voice dropping. “And we love you.”
Shane hums in agreement. “Yeah.”
Your chest tightens again, warm and full.
You take a sip of coffee to hide it. “Okay, okay. Enough feelings. Eat your breakfast.”
Ilya’s hand squeezes your thigh under the table, gentle.
Shane’s knee nudges yours.
Neither of them pushes. They never do. They just… stay close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
After a moment, Ilya tilts his head. “Say something Russian to Shane.”
Shane freezes. “No.”
You grin. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t speak Russian,” he says flatly.
“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You just have to accept it.”
Shane exhales. “Fine. What do you want me to say?”
Ilya’s eyes brighten. “Say: ‘Я люблю тебя.’”
Shane squints. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not,” you promise, laughing.
Shane looks between you and Ilya. “If this is embarrassing, I’m blaming both of you.”
“Okay,” Ilya says, delighted. “Repeat after me.”
Shane sighs. “Go.”
Ilya says slowly, “Я… люблю… тебя.”
Shane repeats, careful, slightly stiff: “Ya… lyublyu… tebya.”
Ilya beams like he’s just won an award.
Shane points at him. “What did I just say?”
Ilya looks at you, delighted. “Tell him.”
You smile. “You said ‘I love you.’”
Shane’s face goes still.
Then he looks at you,soft, vulnerable, honest,and says, in English, because he needs you to understand without any barriers:
“I do.”
Your breath catches.
Ilya goes quiet too, like even he recognizes the weight of that moment.
Shane clears his throat, suddenly flustered. “Okay. Eat. Stop looking at me.”
Ilya grins. “He is blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you say, smiling.
Shane mutters, “This is why I hate mornings.”
“You love mornings,” you tease.
“I love this,” he corrects, gesturing vaguely at the three of you. “I just hate… being perceived.”
Ilya laughs. “Too late. We perceive you.”
You lean your head against Shane’s shoulder for a second, then against Ilya’s. A small, quiet motion that says I’m here.
Ilya murmurs, “Ты наша.” You’re ours.
Shane immediately looks up. “What did he say?”
You smile sweetly. “He said… I’m yours.”
Shane’s expression softens. “Yeah.”
Ilya adds, with a grin, “And you are ours too.”
Shane shakes his head. “That one I understood without translation.”
You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen like sunlight.
Breakfast continues,teasing, small touches, easy warmth.
And for a moment, everything feels simple.
Like love can be this: pancakes and Russian compliments, Shane pretending he’s annoyed, Ilya pretending he’s not sentimental, and you right in the middle of it,exactly where you want to be.
