My fork slips against the plate, a sharp scrape that makes me flinch.I grip the stem of my glass too tight, the wine trembling in the bowl.When I finally look up, his eyes are already on me — steady, searching, as if he’s caught the crack before I can hide it.
And then Martin leans across the table, grinning, his cheeks red from wine.
“Hey, Kern—no shame in letting Matteo have one.You’ve still got the downhill.Our girl here will write you back into glory again, right Katharina?”
I manage a small smile, trying to appear professional and neutral.“Of course, ’cause he’ll win.”
The table laughs with Martin’s joke.But Thomas doesn’t.His fork stills.His head tilts, just slightly, like the words snagged somewhere deeper than I meant.
He leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine.His voice is low, meant for me alone.
“What if I´m not the golden boy anymore?”he says, rough around the edges.“Still want me?”
His fork presses too hard, scraping porcelain.A flicker crosses his face.Not arrogance, not anger.Something smaller, shakier, like he’s bracing for me to laugh, to leave.Like he’s asking a question he already fears the answer to.
My breathing stills.
“You like me loud when I win.What about when I don’t?”
I turn to him slowly.The candlelight catches on his cheekbones, sharpening the lines of his face.He looks harder tonight.Angrier.
“Don’t mistake standards for shallowness,” I say slowly.
He lets out a dry laugh, tips his glass, watching the wine swirl.
“I don´t know, Kat, maybe I’m just saying it plain.I ski, I win, I please you.Take the winning out…” He shrugs, the motion stiff, jerky.“…what’s left of us?”
The words hit like cold water, soaking through.I want to reach for his hand, to anchor him somehow, but I don’t.He’d hate me for it.Pity would be poison.
So I sit in the sting, pen pressed to paper, filling the page with nonsense lines just to keep my hand moving.
Around us, Niko slaps the table with another laugh, Martin launches into a new impression, and the others roar.The sound crashes over us, a tide of cheer and noise that makes our silence feel sharper, thinner, more fragile.
Thomas leans back, sliding into the laughter as if nothing had happened.His smile is back in place, easy and practiced.He even throws a glance at Jonas and lifts his glass in mock salute.
I stare down at my page, the scratches running into each other until they blur.My chest is tight, my breath shallow.
The air is stifling, yet I feel cold, like the draft from the open door just brushed through me alone.
Because I am afraid he is right.
Do I really know this man?Have I not fallen for an icon, a golden skier on a pedestal?
When that is gone, what are we really?
The hallway is quiet after the storm of dinner, just the low hum of the heating vents and the muffled clink of dishes being washed in the kitchen.My boots scuff against the wooden floorboards as I slip out, my head still buzzing with his words, too sharp to fade.
I almost miss him.He’s standing further down the hall, half in shadow, his jacket slung over one shoulder, head bent like the ceiling lamps are too bright for him.For a heartbeat, I think he’ll just walk away.Pretend I’m not here.
“Thomas,” I say.
He stops.Slowly, he turns his head.And when his eyes find mine, there’s no anger in them.Just longing, sadness, pain.It guts me more than his cruel words ever could.
His jaw works once or twice, like he’s about to speak but swallows it down.His hand twitches at his side, starting toward me, then curls back into a fist.The silence stretches, heavy, aching.He just stands there, caught between reaching for me and disappearing into the dark.
Another step, and still he doesn’t move.
My hand hovers uselessly at my side.Every instinct says comfort him, steady him, but pity is the last thing he’d accept.
