I help him with his sweatpants, slide them down just enough, roll the condom on, and then I sink onto him, slow and careful. He exhales like it's the first breath he's taken all day.
We move together, gentle, quiet. His hands are on my waist, guiding me, and I brace myself on his shoulders, trying not to put weight on his knee.
It should feel like us. It should feel like the woods, like Hinterstoder, like all the times we couldn't keep our hands off each other.
But it doesn't.
It feels like saying goodbye.
His eyes are closed. His breathing is ragged. And when he comes, it's quiet, almost reluctant, like even his body knows this isn't enough to save us.
Afterward, I stay on his lap, forehead pressed to his, both of us breathing hard.
"I love you," he whispers.
"I love you too."
But I don't tell him about Vektor. Because I might be leaving him after all.
I climb off him, clean up in the bathroom, and come back to find him lying on the couch, eyes closed, one arm thrown over his face.
I grab a blanket from the bedroom and drape it over him.
Then I go back to the table and open my laptop.
The Vektor email is in my inbox together with apartment listings. There is a site where people look for roommates to split the rent bill.
I look at Nico sleeping on the coach, and blink away the tears.
I know what I have to do.
If I stay, I'll watch him destroy himself. And I'll let him. Because that's what I've been doing since Kvitfjell.
I have to leave.
Not because I don't love him.
Because I do.
***
NICO
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I reach for it, careful not to wake Élise. She's at the table, head on her folded arms, laptop still open in front of her. She fell asleep there an hour ago.
The text is from Coach Leitner.
LEITNER:Need confirmation for Finals lineup. You in or out for Super-G?
I stare at the message. My knee throbs, a dull, insistent reminder of everything Dr. Huber said. Everything Élise said.
You're doing this because you think you have to prove something.
She's right. She's always right.
But I can't stop.
