for the woman who holds everything
Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Reader
Word Count: 1579
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Valentine's Day Masterlist
a/n: happy mother’s day to all the amazing moms, mother figures, future moms, pet moms, and anyone who spends their days loving and caring for others 🤍
You wake up to the sound of whispering.
Not the gentle kind, either. The suspicious kind. The kind that makes you keep your eyes shut and pretend you are still asleep while your brain slowly starts collecting clues.
There is a soft thump.
Then a small squeak.
Then, unmistakably, Ilya’s voice, low and careful: “No, no, the flower goes there.”
Your brows lift.
There is another tiny sound, and then your baby lets out a delighted little giggle from somewhere near the foot of the bed.
That gets you immediately.
You open your eyes just enough to see the curtain of morning light pouring through the bedroom window and, at the end of the bed, Ilya crouched in sweatpants and a T-shirt, holding your baby under the arms while she wobbles with the kind of concentration only a very determined toddler can manage. In front of them is a tray with a mug, toast, fruit, and a vase with one slightly crooked flower in it.
You blink. “What is happening?”
Ilya freezes.
Your baby sees you and instantly makes a happy noise, arms reaching.
Ilya straightens a little too fast. “You are awake.”
“Clearly,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing?”
He glances at the tray, then at your baby, who is now trying to launch herself toward you with all the force her tiny body can muster. “We are… celebrating.”
You sit up slowly, propping yourself on one elbow. “Celebrating what?”
He looks genuinely offended by the question. “It is Mother’s Day.”
Your heart softens instantly.
Of course he remembered. Of course he did. You should have known. Ilya was impossible to surprise but also impossible not to love when he got all serious about taking care of the people he loved.
You smile despite yourself. “You’ve been planning this?”
“I did not say planning,” he says, already moving toward the bed with your baby in his arms. “I said celebrating.”
“Those are not different,” you murmur.
“They are to me.”
Your baby makes a grabby noise, and Ilya hands her over with careful, practiced hands. She lands against your chest, warm and wiggly and full of immediate joy at having found you, her little hands slapping your shirt as she buries her face into your neck.
You laugh softly. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Ilya watches the two of you for a second, something warm and unmistakably tender crossing his face.
“She wanted to wake you herself,” he says.
“Did she now?”
He nods solemnly. “She was very committed.”
You glance down at your daughter. “You were helping Daddy with a secret?”
She responds by gnawing on your shoulder with the seriousness of someone who absolutely believes she has contributed meaningfully to the household.
Ilya folds his arms and leans against the foot of the bed. “She was mostly eating the card.”
You turn toward the tray. “There is a card?”
His expression shifts into something smug and shy at the same time. “Yes.”
You reach for the folded paper on the tray and open it carefully. It is clearly homemade. There is a handprint on the front in paint that may have originally been pink and is now a shade best described as “creative.” Inside, there are three uneven words in Ilya’s handwriting, followed by several very enthusiastic scribbles that are presumably from your baby.
You read aloud, smiling already. “‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.’”
Your throat tightens.
Below it, in smaller handwriting, Ilya has added: She loves you first and always. I only help.
You look up at him, suddenly emotional in that specific way that catches you off guard because it is too early and your heart is still too soft from sleep.
“Ilya…”
He shifts, suddenly a little awkward, like he does when he’s trying very hard to pretend he is not feeling everything at once. “What.”
“This is sweet.”
He gives you a look that is half defensive, half embarrassed. “Yes.”
“And you made breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“And you got her to make a card.”
He glances at your baby, who has now grabbed a fistful of your hair and is trying to eat it. “I assisted.”
You laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye with your free hand. “You absolutely planned this.”
“I did not plan,” he repeats.
“You say that like planning is an insult.”
“It can be,” he says, then softens when he sees your face. “I wanted you to wake up and feel… appreciated.”
That undoes you a little.
You stare at him for a second, your daughter still sprawled across your lap like she owns you, and say quietly, “You do know I appreciate you too, right?”
His expression changes at once. “This is not about me.”
“It always turns into something about you.”
“No,” he says, but there is a small smile tugging at his mouth now. “Not today.”
You set the card beside the tray and hold your arms out. “Come here.”
Ilya looks suspicious. “Why?”
“Because I want to kiss my husband.”
He blinks, then crosses the room in two steps like he has been waiting for permission all morning. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the tray, and leans in just enough for you to press a kiss to his cheek.
Then another to the corner of his mouth.
Then a third, slower one that makes him close his eyes for a second.
Your baby watches the whole thing with deep interest and then slaps your collarbone, apparently convinced that she is the true center of the day.
Ilya opens one eye. “She is jealous.”
“She is a baby.”
“She has your temperament,” he says.
You gasp in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
He gives you a tiny, wicked smile. “Defensive. Demanding. Very cute when she is angry.”
You laugh, and the sound fills the room in a way that makes everything feel softer.
“Did you make the breakfast?” you ask, finally reaching for the mug.
He nods. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I made the toast and cut fruit. The eggs were… complicated.”
You take one look at the tray. “These are very fancy eggs.”
He lifts one shoulder. “That is because I am talented.”
“You are lying.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
You take a bite of toast and hum around the mouthful. “This is good.”
His entire posture eases. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He looks absurdly pleased with himself. “Good.”
Your baby reaches for the toast, making tiny urgent noises that mean absolutely nothing to anyone except you.
“Oh, you want some too?” you ask, pretending to be deeply surprised. “You want the celebration breakfast?”
She answers by grabbing at your sleeve with both hands.
Ilya points at her. “See? We did well.”
You look between them and feel your chest ache in the best possible way.
“Why does this feel like one of those moments I’m going to remember forever?” you ask quietly.
Ilya’s voice goes softer. “Because it is one.”
There is a beat of silence after that. Not an awkward one. A full one. A warm one. The kind where nobody needs to fill the space because the love is already doing that for them.
Then your baby lets out a squeal and tries to head-butt your chin.
You laugh. “Okay. Right. We’re not allowed to be sentimental for too long.”
Ilya leans back, looking very calm for a man who clearly put a lot of effort into pretending this was casual. “She does not like when you get emotional.”
“She does not know what emotional is.”
He glances at the baby. “She senses it.”
You shake your head, smiling into your mug. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yes,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But I made you breakfast.”
You look at him over the rim of the mug. “That is true.”
“And the card.”
“Also true.”
“And I got up with her twice in the night so you could sleep.”
You narrow your eyes. “That part was not supposed to be on the list.”
“I include it,” he says.
Your smile turns softer. “You do realize you are making me fall in love with you all over again.”
His expression goes dangerously warm.
“I think,” he says, voice low, “that was the point.”
Your baby chooses that exact moment to clap both hands against your face, very pleased with herself.
Ilya laughs first, a quiet, surprised sound, and then you’re laughing too, because of course this is what love looks like now: breakfast on a tray, a toddler with syrup on her fingers, and a man who remembers the little things because he treats them like the biggest things in the world.
Later, after the tray is abandoned on the nightstand and your baby is half-asleep against your chest, Ilya lies beside you, one arm draped over both of you like a promise.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he murmurs.
You turn your head toward him. “You already said that.”
He kisses your temple. “I know. I wanted to say it again.”
You smile into the quiet. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
You look down at the small warm shape of your baby in your arms, then back at him.
“For making me feel like this matters.”
Ilya’s hand covers yours, gentle and sure. “It does matter.”
And in the sunlight, with your daughter breathing softly against you and Ilya’s hand steady in yours, it feels like the whole world has finally slowed down enough to let you keep this moment.
Just long enough to hold it.