She doesn’t move.
No phone. No sideways glances. No “Excuse me, are you…?”
She just stares at a scuff on the floor between us, breath puffing faintly inside her goggles. Then she turns her head, scanning the fog behind the window, like she has her own demons to chase.
Outside, the lift clamps bite, and we roll out of the station, back into the wind. The cabin sways, and I realize I’m still holding my shoulders up by my ears.
Okay. Relax. Not every stranger wants a piece of you.
I let my back hit the plastic again and follow her gaze to the skis on the rack. White top sheet, a brand I don’t recognize, race plate, proper bindings. Long skis, unbuckled boots, race bindings.
So. Not just a regular tourist. Interesting.
The wind picks up, a low howl around the cabin that makes the cables sing. For a moment, we glide cleanly, pylons ticking past somewhere in the fog.
Then the hum cuts.
The cabin shudders, swings once, twice, then hangs. The sudden quiet has weight to it—no cable vibration, no passing cabins, just the creak of metal and the wind trying to jostle us loose.
She jerks, head snapping up. Her gaze slams into mine, and her eyes go wide, really seeing me for the first time.
There it is. The tiny hitch in her breath, the flicker of recognition. I can almost count the beats: helmet, goggles, face, oh.
I brace for the rest. The phone, the smile, the “Sorry, but couldwe…”
Instead, she swallows, blinks once, and looks away. Down at her boots, at the scuff on the floor, anywhere but at me. As if embarrassed to even look at me. Weird reaction, but I get it.
The cabin rocks again, a slow, lazy sway.
“Na super,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
She huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, then shakes her head and looks away again.
Okay. That’s… new.
Her pocket starts ringing then, sharp in the cramped space. She fumbles out her phone and answers on the first buzz in a language that’s all soft consonants and slippery vowels—Polish or Czech, if I had to bet. Her voice is low and smooth, the kind that would sit nicely in my ear even if she were reading a weather report.
I don’t understand the words, but I understand the tone. Tight, controlled. Friends or family, maybe a boyfriend, checking to see if she’s freaking out in a stopped gondola. She keeps her eyes firmly off me while she talks, lashes lowered, mouth quirking once like she’s trying to reassure whoever’s on the other end and herself at the same time.
The more I look, the more pieces slot into place—sleek cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it laughs easily, if she ever lets it. And would probably feel good under mine if I ever lost my mind enough to try.
I shake my head at the thought.
As if my wayward dick has not brought me enough trouble already.
When she finally hangs up, the silence rushes back in and settles between us, thick and a little awkward.
“Everything alright?” I ask in English to test it. Seeing if she wants to keep pretending I’m just another guy in a helmet.
She startles, just a little, then nods.
“Yeah. My friends.” She answers in German instead, clean and careful. “They don’t like me stuck in here.”
She talks in German. So, she knows exactly who she’s stuck here with…and still isn’t reaching for her phone. For some reason, that’s starting to itch under my skin almost as much as the opposite.
Her breath fogs the space between us. Up close, her eyes are lighter than I thought—hazel, maybe, with a green ring that catches what little light there is.
“Wind hold,” I say, nodding toward the cable. “Happens. They’ll start it again once they’re sure nothing falls off.”
