Her shoulders lift, drop.“Unfinished.”She smiles, but it’s faint, fragile.Then, after a beat: “But I’m still here.”
Steam hisses from the machine, breaking the moment.I nod, because I know what she means.Still here is enough.
The finish pen is still buzzing — Niko spraying champagne, reporters jostling, coaches shouting into radios — when I see him.
Thomas.Helmet off, goggles loose around his neck, hair damp with sweat.His chest still heaves from the run, breath puffing white into the January air.
He catches my eye.And for a moment, the rest of the noise fades.
I walk toward him, weaving through the crowd until the barrier separates us.He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches me with that crooked, almost-smile that always meant more than words.
Finally, he says, voice rough but light, “Didn’t even scare you this time.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.“You did.But less than usual.”
The grin breaks across his face, wide and boyish, and I can’t help matching it.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the slope behind us.“Let’s get out of here before someone sticks a mic in my face.”
I nod.Step back from the barrier.
And just like that, I follow.
He’s back.We’re scratched, not broken.
And that’s enough.
