When his hand emerged, he was holding something small and familiar: a velvet pouch. My heart stuttered as he opened it, revealing one of his Olympic medals.
Pure. Fucking. Gold.
“This,” he said, his voice steady now, “used to be my greatest win. But it’s not anymore.”
He took my hand, his fingers trembling as he placed the medal around my neck and it was so heavy it nearly made me stumble over, Bae chuckled. The cool weight of it settled there.
“You, Yesoh Yeo,” he declared, his voice soft, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, “are the greatest win of my life. You always have been. You always will be.”
The words shattered the last of my defenses. A sob tore free from my chest, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, unable to stop the flood of emotions that surged through me.
He was crying too now, tears streaking his face as he watched me with a mix of love and desperation that left me breathless.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and threw my arms around him. He caught me instantly, his embrace fierce and unyielding, as if he was afraid to let go.
We stood there, holding each other as the weight of everything—years of missed chances, of unspoken feelings, of mistakes and regrets—melted away.
“I love you, Wynter Andy Kwon,” I whispered against his shoulder, my tears soaking into the fabric of his jacket. “I always have.”
“I’ll ensure that you never regret it,” he promised.
The world outside faded into nothing, leaving only us, standing together in the aftermath of everything. And for the first time, I felt whole.
I could go home that night knowing that I was living my dream, that I had made my friends and family proud with my work, my sport, that somehow somewhere along the line for a reason entirely unbeknownst to me—I had become my first love’s last.
41
Epilogue
Seoul Two Years Later
The Olympic ice arena glistened in the daylight, shining like a jewel at the center of it all. It was a cathedral of sorts, flooded with thousands of people raising their flags from all around the globe—fascinating, really. The chill from the rink seeped into the stands, but no one seemed to notice or pay attention. The energy in the room was electric, a tide of excitement that lit fire in all of our hearts.
Yesoh sat in the first row, closer to the rink than she'd ever been—it was the row reserved for friends and family of thecompetitors. She wore Wynter's jacket, the navy blue one with the Olympic rings on it that read "KWON" on the back. She held both the Korean and British flags for him, even though he was competing for England. The roar of the audience was deafening as the announcer's voice echoed through: "Next on the ice, representing the United Kingdom: Wynter Kwon!"
The very mention of his name sent a surge of applause rippling through the stands. Yesoh's heart leapt hearing the crowd screaming the name of the man that she loved and who loved her. She adjusted her scarf as she watched him skate into the spotlight. He was dressed in a sleek midnight blue costume with faint silver accents that caught the light like shards of starlight. He radiated effortless confidence, his posture poised, his movements graceful. Yesoh knew, however, that she was the only person in those stands who knew just how hard he worked to get here.
He'd gotten injured two years ago—a damaged knee that took far too long to heal, with months of frustrating physiotherapy. It was months of pushing his body to the limit, of carefully measured, grueling late-night practices. It took him months to trust his body again, to believe that he could win again. Luckily, his girlfriend just so happened to be the most stubborn and optimistic person when it came to all matters concerning him. Once his greatest cheerleader, now vying for his manager, apparently.
Yesoh's throat tightened as he took his place at the center of the ice, where he belonged and always would. The god of ice in his domain. He glanced at the crowd, his eyes scanning briefly before locking on her. A faint smile tucked at the corner of his lips, and for a moment, the rest of the arena seemed to disappear.
All at once, the music began. He was to perform to "Running Up That Hill" by Kate Bush, and it was no easy feat.
His first strides across the ice were deliberate, almost reverent, as though each step was a promise. Slowly the music built up, and with it, his movements became more powerful, more fluid. Photographers were working overtime, and the local news broadcasters were there as well. Yesoh glanced around her and saw how nervous all of the other English people in the stands were, on the edge of their seats. Yesoh couldn't help but smile to herself—how foolish they were.
She knew he was going to win, down to her marrow. It was what they did; they always won.
He flew into the next jump, spinning with breathtaking speed. Yesoh couldn't help but worry for his knee and the pressure he was putting on it, but if he was anything, he was the strongest person she knew. She knew that he could endure above all. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath. The girl's heart was in her throat when he landed cleanly, his blade slicing the ice in a perfect arc. The second jump followed, and this time when his feet hit the ice, the crowd erupted in cheers so loud it felt like thunder beneath her feet.
Yesoh gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She felt tears in her eyes, but she didn't wipe them away. She couldn't look away, couldn't blink as he continued his perfect execution, weaving raw power and delicate artistry together as though he were painting something terrestrial on the ice.
By the time he reached his final spin, the music soaring into its crescendo, the crowd was on its feet. Wynter ended in a low pose, one knee bent, arms outstretched, chest heaving as the last note hung in the air like the echo of a heartbeat. The roar of the arena was instant—a tidal wave of applause. She could see the relief on his face, knowing that all those months of pain were not in vain.
The score flashed on the screen moments later, but the noise of the crowd drowned out the announcer's voice. Wynter's nameshot to the top of the leaderboard, and the word "GOLD" blazed next to it.
Yesoh barely had time to process the result before she saw him skating towards the edge of the rink, cameras and news broadcasters' lenses following him. His face was flushed, his chest still rising and falling with every labored breath, but his eyes searched the stands, and then he found her.
"Wynter—" she started, but before she could say anything more, he leapt over the barrier and swept her into his arms. She gasped as she felt her feet lift from the ground, his strong arms wrapping around her in the cage of his embrace. She felt the chill of his costume as her eyes watered for him, for his victory. All she could focus on was the way his heart pounded against her, the way he buried his face in her hair as though she was the prize herself.
