"If you agree, they'll start selling it.With your signatures, of course," I explain.
He picks it up, turning it in his hands.The graphics slash across the surface — angles, speed, a frozen image of him mid-flight.Heroic.Untouchable.
But then his eyes catch on it.The flaw.A small scratch, barely visible, right where the surface of another ski had split in the depot that night.
The night everything changed.
His fingers brush over it.The silence thickens, heavy with everything that mark carries.
"I told them to make it," I say quietly."Said that it has emotional value for you."
His head lifts, eyes dark.The words hang there between us, sharp as the edge of the ski.
"It does, doesn't it?"I ask, almost pleading as he remains silent.
And just like that, the crack in the dam appears.
***
Thomas
Our hands brush as I lower the ski back onto the table.Her fingers catch mine for half a breath, not enough to call it a touch, but enough to freeze the air between us.
I look at her.Really look.The shadows under her eyes.The line of her mouth, soft but tense.The way she holds herself, like she’s bracing for impact.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She swallows, eyes flicking away, then back.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” she says, voice low.“But I wanted to.That’s why I’m here.”
Silence.Long enough for the hum of the fridge to fill it.
And then something shifts.No declarations.No apologies.Just the two of us, too tired to pretend anymore.
I lean in, slow, not sure until the last second if she’ll let me.She does.
The kiss is tired, gentle, honest.Not fireworks.Not hunger.Just us.
Not a reunion out of habit.A choice.
Later, we end up on the floor.A bottle of wine half-empty between us, a plate of cheese and bread picked over.The ski leans against the wall, a silent totem watching us.
No racing talk.No press talk.Just small things; Stories, quiet laughter, the kind of words that never make headlines but keep people alive.
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I feel steady for the first time in months.
She traces the rim of her glass.“This doesn’t erase the mess.The rivalry, the circus, the things we never said.It’s all still there.”Her eyes lift to mine.“But so am I.”
Good with words as always.
“I´m still me, I´m sorry,” I shrug.
“I´ll take it.”
She smiles faintly and brushes her fingers across my cheek.
Her gaze flicks to the ski, the faint scratch catching the light.
