Luka freezes, one boot already over the threshold. He doesn't turn around. For a second I think he's going to pretend he didn't hear me, just walk out and disappear into the white blizzard beyond.
But then he looks back. Just his face, profile sharp against the morning brightness.
"Skiing."
He gives me only one word.
"But there’s a blizzard out there. Do you have a death wish?"
"A blizzard means new powder on the slopes. It’s the best snow I’ll get for the entire trip."
"There’s no way the ski resort has the lifts open in this weather," I argue.
"It’s a blizzard, Natalia… not Armageddon," he says, turning back to the outside.
My brain catches up with my mouth. "Wait—Luka, we need to talk."
"No, we don't."
He steps fully outside now, and the door starts to swing closed. I scramble out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor with a shock that barely registers because I'm too busy trying to process what he just said.
Now that I know how cold the floor is, I’m glad he didn’t let me sleep on the floor last night. I would have frozen my butt off, but right now isn’t the time to swallow my pride and thank him.
"Yes, wedo—"
He glances over his ski-jacketed shoulder at me in my freezing pajama shorts. "You’re going home as soon as the airport opensback up." His voice cuts through the wind. "Don’t worry. We’ll survive the separation."
Then he takes a step forward into the blanket of snow, pulling the door with him.
"Luka, hold on—"
But he’s already gone, and the door slamming shut echoed through the chalet.
I lunge forward, grabbing the handle and yanking the door open, immediately regretting every decision I've ever made.
The cold doesn't just hit me. It's a full-blown assault. The brutal, frigid air of the Alpine cut like a knife straight through the thin cotton of my shirt and wrapped icy fingers around my lungs. My breath leaves in a visible gasp. Snow glitters in the early morning light, blinding me. Somewhere beyond the covered porch, I can barely make out Luka's figure through the storm. He’s halfway down the path, skis slung over his shoulder.
I open my mouth to yell after him just as another blast of wind steals the words right out of my throat.
"Jesus—"
I yelp and stagger backward, slamming the door shut so hard the frame rattles. My arms wrap around myself instinctively, rubbing heat back into skin that feels like it's been flash-frozen.
"I hate the snow," I mutter, teeth chattering. "I hate the snow, I hate the Alps, I hate—"
I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. Because hating Luka Popovich isn't going to fix this situation.
And right now, I need to fix it.
An hour later, I'm showered, dressed, and standing in the middle of the chalet's small kitchen area, arms crossed, staring at a sticky note that Luka left for me with the phone number for the airport hotline and a simple note:
CALL EVERY HOUR.
DON’T WANDER.
–L
My jaw tightens.
