“When am I not?”
He drew her closer, letting his natural heat surround her. She leaned into him without thinking.
“How are you so warm?”
“My people have an internal thermal core,” he said softly. “It prevents hypothermia.”
“So you don’t even need the suit.”
“No. But it tracks progress.”
They stood there longer than necessary. Then she pulled back. He missed her immediately.
They continued down the hill, Vaelor leading, reaching back whenever the ice turned slick—protective, steady, already adapting to a future neither of them dared name.
They continued down the slope, Vaelor leading, choosing each step with care. The ice here was thin and deceptive, hidden beneath powdery snow that gave the illusion of safety. He reached back more often than necessary, steadying Mara over slick patches, his hand lingering a heartbeat longer each time before he forced himself to let go.
He told himself it was practical.
But it wasn’t, not really.
The warmth from earlier still clung to him, the memory of her weight against his chest, the way she’d leaned in without hesitation. That single, unguarded movement had cracked something he’d sworn to keep sealed.
This was exactly what he had vowed to avoid.
Attachment dulled judgment. Caring led to mistakes. He had learned that lesson at a cost. He had entered the Games with one rule carved into his bones: survive, win, leave unchanged.
And yet—
“Mara,” he said abruptly, stopping.
She nearly bumped into him. “What is it?”
He turned, studying her face in the pale light. Snow dusted her lashes. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, from exertion. From him. The realization struck harder than any blow.
“You should walk closer,” he said. “The terrain worsens ahead.”
She tilted her head. “That’s not really a suggestion, is it?”
“No.”
She hesitated, then stepped nearer, close enough that their arms brushed. The contact sent a pulse of heat through him—unwanted, undeniable. He adjusted his pace unconsciously to match hers, slower now, protective.
This was the moment.
He felt it clearly—the line he should not cross. He could still retreat into discipline, into distance. He could treat her like any other partner. Like an obligation.
Instead, he reached out and took her hand.
Not to steady her.
Just to hold it.
Mara inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled around his, tentative at first, then firm. Trusting.
Vaelor closed his eyes for a brief, reckless second.
I will not repeat my father’s mistakes, he reminded himself.
