"Yeah." His voice is lighter now, buzzing. "Snow's holding. Next speed block's coming after Chamonix—big one. But Chamonix first. Tech weekend."
He's still moving, restless, hands never quite still. Unpacking. Reorganizing. Talking without looking at me.
"Sections felt good today," he adds, almost to himself. "Clean. Fast. Whatever happened in Schladming—it's fixable. I know it is."
I watch him. The way his shoulders sit a little higher than usual. The way his jaw isn't tight, for once. The way he keeps glancing around the flat like he's checking to make sure everything's still in place.
And then his eyes land on me, standing barefoot in his hoodie with damp hair and yesterday's mascara smudged under my eyes, and something in his expression shifts.
Softens.
Like I'm the proof that today was a good day.
He tosses the cheese onto the counter a little too enthusiastically. It skids toward the edge.
I catch it, one eyebrow raised. "Careful with the Gouda, champion."
"Don't drop it," he says, mock-serious. "That's premium fuel."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling.
For a moment, the flat doesn't feel small at all.
It feels exactly the right size.
***
The kitchen is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two.
I'm standing at the counter with a cutting board and an onion that's already making my eyes water, trying to remember the last time I actually cooked something that didn't come from a restaurant kitchen or a catering tray.
Nico leans over my shoulder, watching. "You're supposed to cut it, not murder it."
"Iamcutting it."
"You're hacking. There's a difference."
I elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and reaches around me, his chest warm against my back, and takes the knife out of my hand.
"Watch," he says, and demonstrates, quick, confident cuts that turn the onion into neat little pieces in about ten seconds.
I hate that it's attractive.
"Show-off," I mutter.
He grins, sliding the cutting board toward the pan. "You can stir."
We work in the cramped space, bumping hips and elbows, him adding garlic and oil while I try not to let the onions burn. He keeps reaching past me for things, the salt, the pepper, the bottle of wine I opened and have been steadily drinking from, andevery time his arm brushes mine, I feel the heat of him through his shirt.
I guess, we rich girls, miss out on the cooking foreplay. Also, the cramped spaces are hot, our spacious halls don’t do us justice.
I steal a piece of cheese from the block he's grating.
He catches me mid-chew. "Hey. That'smyprotein."
"You have an entire block."
"And I need it. I'm racing, not lounging around stealing cheese."
