I open my laptop and click on LinkedIn. Scroll through postings. Marketing Manager—requires five years’ experience. PR Coordinator—entry-level, barely pays rent. Brand Consultant—my father's name is the first thing any interviewer will Google.
I close the laptop.
What am I even qualified to do? Smile at cameras? Approve logo placements? Be decorative?
Outside, the mountains are sharp and white against the sky. Inside, the radiator clanks. The fridge hums.
And I sit here in his hoodie, in his flat, waiting for him to come back so I can feel like I have a reason to be awake.
I take another sip of coffee and tell myself this is fine.
I'm happy. I'm free. I'm exactly where I want to be. With the man I chose.
The man who will finally let me breathe fresh air.
***
I'm halfway through my second terrible cup of coffee when I hear his boots on the landing.
Heavy. Uneven. The dull thud of something large being dropped by the door, then the scrape of a key that doesn't quite fit the lock on the first try.
I set the mug down and cross the tiny living room in three steps.
When I open the door, Nico is standing there with two supermarket bags dangling from one hand and his ski boots slung over the opposite shoulder, face flushed from cold and exertion, hair sticking up in every direction under his beanie.
He grins when he sees me. The kind of grin that says he's still half on the mountain.
"Starving yet?" he asks.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I've been abandoned in the Austrian Alps for five hours. I'm practically feral."
He lifts the grocery bags like trophies. "Relax. I hunted discount carbs for my princess."
Despite myself, I laugh.
He shoulders past me into the flat, drops the boots with a satisfyingthunk, and carries the bags straight to the kitchen counter. Snow melts off his jacket onto the floor. He doesn't notice.
I follow, watching as he starts unpacking. Pasta. Eggs. Bell peppers. A block of cheese wrapped in plastic that looks aggressively orange. Cheap chocolate with the Spar label.
"Your empire smells like snow and sweat," I say, wrinkling my nose.
He doesn't even look up. "Mortgageshoebox," he corrects, still grinning as he shoves the milk into the fridge next to a row of protein shakes. "This ismyempire."
There's pride in his voice. Real pride. Not the defensive kind I'm used to hearing when men talk about money, the kind that puffs up to cover insecurity. This is different. Quieter. Confident.
He bought this place when he was twenty-one. Saved every cent from prize money and junior sponsorships while most ofhis teammates were still living in federation housing or their parents' basements.
It's not much. But it's his.
I pick up the chocolate bar, turn it over in my hands. "You know they make chocolate that doesn't come in bulk packaging, right?"
"Yeah, and it costs three times as much and tastes like someone's feelings." He snatches it back, tosses it onto the counter. "This one's honest."
I bite back a smile.
He cracks the fridge again, rearranging things with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Protein shakes lined up like soldiers. Vegetables in the drawer. Cheese carefully placed where it won't get crushed.
"Good training?" I ask, leaning my hip against the counter.
