I'm losing my mind.
It's been a day since the moonlight ski, and I can't stop replaying the moment Daria told me she felt invisible. The vulnerability in her voice, the way she leaned into my touch like she was starving for it—it's haunting me.
I almost kissed her. I came so close I could taste it. But something held me back. Maybe the age gap. Or the power dynamic. Probably the fact that once I start, I won't be able to stop.
Now she's booked for an intermediate lesson this afternoon, and I'm checking equipment with shaking hands like some nervous teenager.
"You've got it bad," Devon observes from the doorway.
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying—I've never seen you like this. It's kind of adorable."
I throw a glove at him. He catches it, laughing.
"For what it's worth," he says, "she's into you too. Everyone can see it."
"That's the problem."
"Why is that a problem?"
Because I'm thirty-five and she's twenty-three. I'm staff and she's a guest, and Kelly already sent another reminder email about professional boundaries. If I let myself have this—have her—and it ends badly, I'll have to see her around the resort for the rest of the week, watch her smile at someone else, know I screwed it up. Worse, she doesn’t live here, and I would have to let her go.
But mostly because I'm falling for her, and that's terrifying.
"Just be careful," Devon says, more gently. "I'm rooting for you, man. But don't do anything stupid."
Too late for that.
Daria arrives at one o'clock, cheeks flushed from the cold, wearing that green thermal again. My mouth goes dry.
"Ready for a challenge?" I ask.
"Always."
We take the lift to an advanced slope, one that requires more technical skill. The afternoon sun is brilliant, but storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. We've got maybe two hours before the weather moves in.
I walk her through the run, pointing out tricky spots. She listens intently, asking smart questions. When we ski down the mountain, she handles it beautifully—confident, controlled, only one small wobble near the bottom.
"That was amazing!" She's breathless, glowing. "Can we do it again?"
We make three more runs. Each time she gets better, more assured. I watch her transform from the uncertain woman at orientation into someone who trusts her body, trusts the mountain, trusts herself.
On our fourth run, the temperature plummets. Wind picks up, clouds rolling in faster than forecasted.
"We need to head down," I call. "The storm's moving in early."
We're halfway to the base when the wind intensifies, visibility dropping. Snow falls—not the gentle flakes from earlier this week, but hard, wind-driven pellets that sting exposed skin.
"Nick!" Daria's voice is tight with fear.
"I've got you. Stay close." I move beside her, guiding her down. But the conditions deteriorate fast—whiteout conditions, can't see more than a few feet.
I make a quick decision. "There's a warming hut about a hundred yards east. We're going there."
The hut materializes through the snow like a mirage. A small stone structure with a metal roof, built for emergencies like this. I usher Daria inside.
It's basic—one room with a fireplace, emergency supplies, a bench that converts to a narrow cot. But it's shelter, and right now that's everything.
