"I want to." I looked into his eyes. "Just... stay close?"
"Always."
The first run started with a moment of pure terror as the sled tipped over the crest. I clenched the steering rope so tight my knuckles went white beneath the gloves. Then, everything changed. The wind stung my cheeks, and my childhood fear dissolved like my visible breath in the cold air.
The ancient sled sang beneath me—a low, steady hum mixed with the shush of runners cutting through powder. The sound drowned out all my doubts. Snow sprayed up around me, catching the winter sunlight, and I laughed as I barreled down the hill.
The wind rushed past my face, and somewhere between the top and middle of the hill, I began to sing. Not specific words—notes, pure and clear, cutting through the cold air. Part of "Silver Bells," maybe. I wasn't performing. It was instinctual.
When I reached the bottom, Ben stared at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"What?"
"You were singing." He said it like I'd done something impossible. "That was... Alex, that was beautiful."
Heat flooded my face. "It was a reflex—"
"That's why it was beautiful." He stepped closer. "I've never heard you sing. I mean, I heard you direct the kids, but that's teaching. This was different. This was you."
My second run was faster—more confident. I leaned into the turns, feeling the sled respond. The wind whipped past my ears with a rushing sound, and I whooped halfway down, pure exhilaration taking over.
Ben waited at the bottom, clapping his gloved hands together. "There you go! Did you feel how you leaned into that last turn?"
The third run, I caught air over a small bump. My stomach dropped, then the sled landed smoothly, and I kept going, laughing the whole way down.
Ben caught me at the bottom, steadying the sled with his boot. "Ready to try something new?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Two-person run." He positioned the sled. "You sit in front, I'll handle the rope, if you trust my steering."
My pulse raced. "That sounds... complicated."
"Only if we overthink it." His voice dropped lower. "We've got this."
I settled onto the sled, and Ben climbed on behind me. The warmth of his chest against my back made it hard to think straight.
We fit together perfectly. His arms bracketed my sides as he gripped the steering rope.
"Ready?" His breath tickled my ear.
"Define ready."
Ben's laugh rumbled through both our bodies when he pushed off. The descent was faster with our combined weight—the runners hummed a lower note, and the wind rushed past louder than before.
I barely noticed the speed. Every nerve ending focused on our points of contact—his thighs pressed against mine, his solidchest behind me, and his breath warm against my neck. When we hit a small bump, his arm instinctively tightened around my waist, and I leaned back into him without thinking.
We reached the bottom too quickly. Neither of us moved to get up. The world had narrowed to the sound of our breathing—both slightly winded—and the weight of his hand still resting against my ribs.
"Again?" Ben asked.
I turned my head to answer and found his face inches from mine, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted.
A distant church bell broke the spell, its tone muffled by snow. Ben cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "One more run?" I asked.
"Just one?"
One turned into two more tandem runs. First, we took a different line down the slope, and Ben's directions, pressed against my ear, sent shivers down my spine. The second, we purposely hit every bump we could find, and our combined laughter echoed across the empty hill.
