He doesn't turn around. "Yeah? What?"
"A crisis consulting role. In Salzburg."
"Salzburg’s far."
"No, it isn’t. It’s one hour drive.”
"Still far."
"Nico, I need to work."
"So, work." He says it like it's nothing. Like I'm asking permission to go to the grocery store.
"I am. I'm telling you I found something I actually want to do. And I’m not asking your permission."
"Okay. Great. Just... don't apply to Red Bull or any of the Italian brands. The federation would lose their shit."
I stare at his back. "That's your response?"
"What do you want me to say?" He turns around, finally, and his face is exhausted. "I've got Kvitfjell in three days. I don't have the bandwidth to vet your résumé right now."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not asking you to vet it. I'm telling you I'm doing it."
"Then do it." His tone is flat, dismissive. "I don't care."
"You do care."
"Élise, I just said it's fine."
"You said it like it's anuisance."
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "I'm not doing this right now."
"Doing what?"
"Fighting. I just got back from physio. I'm tired. My knee is fucked. I don't need to come home and have you pick a fight because I didn't react the right way to your job posting."
"I'm not picking a fight. I'm trying to tell you something that matters to me, and you're acting like I'm interrupting your recovery routine."
"Maybe because youare."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
He looks away first, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did."
"Élise—"
"You want me here," I say, voice low and steady. "But you don't actually wantme. You want the version of me that sits quietly and doesn't need anything. The pet you can cuddle when you come home feeling like shit about yourself."
His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"I never asked you to be that."
