"That's a low bar."
"It's the highest bar of my life." I looked up at him. "And I don't want to waste a single second of it."
I leaned in and kissed him, he kissed back, then pulled away.
"Alright, Alright. Just let me unpack."
"Fine." I sat back on the bed.
Alex set his bag on the far bed. Unzipped it. Started pulling out his pre-race routine—the foam roller, the stretching bands, some massage gadget The rituals he performed every morning before a big race.
I watched him from the other bed. Shoes off. Back against the headboard.
He was beautiful when he thought nobody was looking. Not the Harrington beautiful—the practiced jaw and the perfect hair and the posture that belonged in a portrait. The other kind. The kind that showed up when the mask was off and his guard was down.
"Stop staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm not staring."
"You're staring. I can feel it."
"Maybe I'm just appreciating the view."
He looked up. His eyes finding mine across the gap between the beds.
"You're nervous," he said.
"About what?"
"Tomorrow."
"Nah." A beat. "Yeah. A little."
"Me too."
He finished stuffing his cloths into the dresser, then stretched—arms overhead, the hem of his shirt riding up and showing a strip of stomach. The cut of his hip above the waistband of his sweats. The trail of blond hair disappearing below.
"You look so good right now," I said.
"Oh yeah?"
He moved to the edge of the bed. Facing me. Three feet between us. The hotel room air charged with the specific electricity that happened when we were alone and nobody was coming through the door.
"What are you gonna do about it?" he said. Not moving. Voice low. The composure still in place but something underneath it shifting—the way ice sounds before it cracks.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're going to sit over there all night."
His mouth twitched. "Maybe I like it over here. Maybe I like you looking at me."
Something hot crawled up my spine. Because he did. He liked being looked at. Not the way he endured being watched by scouts and coaches and his father—the performance, the mask. This was different. This was Alex letting himself be seen and wanting the heat it created.
"You have no idea what you do to me," I said.
"Tell me."
