***
Katharina
He's still in the red chair when I step into the finish zone.
Helmet off.Back slumped.Gloves clenched tight.
Pale.Silent.His mouth set in a way that tells me he hasn't exhaled yet, not really.
The crowd's still buzzing from Matteo's near miss, but the sound feels distant, like it's coming from behind glass.
I walk slowly toward the benches beside the media pen, trying to look casual.The cameras are circling like flies, focused on Thomas, on Matteo, on anyone who still has their limbs intact.
I sit a meter or two away from him.Not too close.Not yet.
He doesn't look at me.
I don't look at him either.
Not at first.
His chest is still rising too fast.Not enough to signal panic.But enough for me to see it isn't pride holding him upright.It's something else.Something burning through him.
It isn't nerves.After Matteo's run, nobody stands a chance of beating him.
Does he know he risked too much?Is he shaken?
That run.
Aggressive.Risky.Controlled until it wasn't.
It was beautiful, yes.But reckless.Almost stupid.
And it was after yesterday.
After what he saw.
After whatIdidn't stop.
I tell myself that's not how this works.
That he wouldn't throw himself downamurderous hill, risk his career, even his life… over a woman.
Over me.
Would he?
The thought is killing me.
And still, underneath the guilt, underneath the nausea from watching Jason's crash, I feel it; that sudden, helpless pull low in my body.
The way he skied… it was brutal.Beautiful.His body pushed past sense, past fear, down a course that eats people alive.
And it turned me on so hard I want to crawl out of my skin.
I hate that.I hate that I can sit here, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons, while he could have been airlifted to the hospital at this very moment.
But he's right next to me, close enough to smell the sweat still cooling on his skin, the sharp, clean bite of adrenaline.
