“Name the time,” he says, voice low.Then, after a beat: “Bedtime works.”
My pulse trips.He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I shake my head, forcing a dry smile.“Not that script.”
And I walk away before he sees how much I wanted to stay.
Later that night, I slid a note under his door, ripped from the edge of an old call sheet.
Thanks.Don't make a habit of it.
Then I turn and walk away.
Still not sure what I owe him.
Still not sure what I'm afraid of.
I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear a door open softly behind me.
I don't stop.But I slow down.
A few steps later, he catches up.Don't rush.Don't speak.Just walks beside me, like we're reading the same book.Even if we're not on the same page yet.
The hallway is quiet.Outside, snow falls softly.The world feels like it's holding its breath.
We're alone, truly alone, for the first time since Hintertux.
I steady my breath.Any move now could be misunderstood as an invitation, because honestly, my body would invite him without my brain's permission.
I hate that he probably knows that.
And I love that he doesn't push.
We don't look at each other.Not yet.
At the far end of the hall, I stop.Lean against the cold glass.Arms loose over my chest.
He stops, too.Half a step back.
I glance at him.He's watching the snow.
The lights and distant beeping of the snow groomers crawling across the slope.Like a colony of diligent ants in a mountainside anthill.
I need to break the silence, so I slip into the role that feels safest: the journalist.
“What are you really doing here?”
He doesn’t flinch.He knows exactly what I’m asking.He’s smarter than he ever pretends to be.
“Winning races,” he says.Then, with a glance that lands too close: “And trying not to piss you off.”
I let out a breath.Almost a laugh.
So, instead of helping me do my job and shape his story, he flirts.Very professional.
"You're not trying very hard," I say."You promised me something I could use, remember?"
He shrugs."I'm a slow learner."
