I stroke her hair back, thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Because out here, nothing else gets a say. Not our names. Not the cameras. Just this. Just you, exactly like this.”
She laughs, broken and gorgeous, and I kiss her again, slow and almost reverent. For a moment, the world is only cold air, hot skin, and the stupid ache of wanting her here, now, maybe longer than I should.
The frost finally starts gnawing at my bare ass, but she keeps holding on, fingers dug into my shoulders like I’m the only solid thing left. Maybe I am. I bury my face in her neck, kiss the half-frozen sweat there, stroke her hair with a tenderness that doesn’tfit this savage little clearing. She whispers something in French, too soft to catch. I don’t ask her to repeat it.
When she finally lets go, she tries to put her foot down, but the snow gives and she stumbles. I catch her around the waist, steady both of us in the churned-up powder. My boots are half-buried, her bare feet vanish in the white, our clothes crooked, the tree behind us scarred.
“Careful,” I say, soft, teasing. “Don’t pull a muscle. I’ve got plans for that leg.”
She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t cry either. For her, that’s improvement.
We collapse back onto the half-buried log, limbs tangled, my suit still hanging open. For a while we just sit, letting the cold gnaw at us, breath steaming in the air.
She shivers, tucking herself into my side, and I drag my zipper up, careful of her hair. I want to ask what she’s running from, but I already know. She’s running from everything. From herself. And for once, I don’t try to fix it. I just hold her.
The silence is thick, but not awkward. We just exist—two wild things in the same clearing, sharing the aftermath.
Eventually, I crack it. “I’m starving,” I say.
She stares, blinking. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I stretch, bones cracking. “Come on. Germknödel.”
A small frown lines her forehead. “What the hell is that?”
I feign horror. “You’ve lived in Austria this long and nobody’s warned you?”
She scrapes her hair back into a ponytail, breath still uneven. “I’m French. We don’t eat the things you people call food.”
“It’s a giant dumpling stuffed with plum jam and drowned in poppy seeds and vanilla sauce,” I say. “It’s disgusting. You’ll love it.”
She makes a face, but curiosity flickers. “It sounds awful.”
“It is. And it’s even worse with beer, which is why we’ll have both.”
She pulls her coat tight, brushing snow from her knees. “You are not taking me to a ski hut like this.”
I look her over, from wild hair to bare feet in the snow. “You’re beautiful. Nobody here cares.”
She snorts. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
I grab her boots, help her step back into them, sling my helmet, and take her hand, leading her back through the drifts to our skis. The snow is deep in places; she stumbles once, then squares her shoulders and keeps going, that stubborn line in her jaw I can’t get enough of.
***
Inside, the hut is loud and sweaty, the air thick with yeast and boiled potatoes and too many wet jackets. I order two Germknödel and a round of Weizen, and we wedge ourselves into a corner by the window.
She watches the crowds, families, kids, old men in wool hats, her gaze dissecting the whole scene. I watch her, fascinated by how she still looks completely out of place, even as the flush in her cheeks makes her almost human.
She grimaces, washing down a bite with Weizen. “My stomach is very confused. Sugar, yeast, beer… no wonder you people throw yourselves off mountains.”
I grin. “This is nothing. Racing is wilder.”
She’s quiet for a minute, rolling a spoon between her fingers. “You’re not afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of falling. Of hurting. Of… losing.”
