Close enough to kiss her.
I release her and step back. "Good try. Let's go again."
We fall into a rhythm. She skis, falls, laughs, gets up, tries again. I adjust her form, offer encouragement, and try to ignore how much I enjoy making her smile. She has this way of being unselfconscious when she's focused—no posturing, no performance. Just genuine effort and delight when something works.
After an hour, I call for a break. We sit on a bench at the slope's edge, mountain views stretching endlessly before us.
"Want some hot chocolate?" I pull a thermos from my pack.
"You came prepared."
"Part of the service." I pour her a cup, our fingers brushing when she takes it and there’s a spark again.
She sips and sighs. "This is amazing. Do you do this for all your students?"
"Only the ones who show promise."
She cuts me a look. "I fell forty times."
"And got up forty times. That's the skill that matters."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at the view. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I just..." She fidgets with her cup. "I guess I'm used to instructors being kind of impatient with beginners. You're not. You're... patient. Nice. I don't know. It's unexpected."
There are a dozen ways to deflect this. Professional answers about excellent customer service and my teaching philosophy. But something in her voice—vulnerable and uncertain—makes me want to be honest.
"Why wouldn't I be nice to you?"
"I don't know." She won't meet my eyes. "I'm not exactly... I mean, look at the other women here. They're—"
"Not you," I finish.
She looks at me, confused.
"The other women aren't you," I say again. "They're not the ones who made me laugh during orientation when you looked terrified. They're not the ones who just spent an hour falling and getting back up without complaining once. They're not..." I stop myself. This is already too much.
"They're not what?" she whispers.
They're not the ones I can't stop thinking about. Or stayed up all night fantasizing about.
"They're not my nine a.m. lesson," I say instead. "You are. So yeah, I'm going to be nice to you."
It's not the whole truth, but it's all I can give her.
She nods slowly, a small smile playing on her lips. "Okay."
We sit in comfortable silence, finishing our hot chocolate. A group of intermediate skiers swoosh past, and I notice Daria watching them with longing.
"You'll get there," I tell her.
"You think?"
