“Not about skiing,” I say lightly. “Anyway. There was talking, and then there was… not so much talking.”
Eva lets out a tiny, delighted squeal. “You absolute menace.”
“It just… happened,” I say, which is a lie, and we all know it. “We were cold, we were scared, the world shrank to about two square meters of plastic. It felt like… not real life. Like some weird side quest where nothing counts.”
“And?” Eva prompts. “Side quest details, please.”
I don’t give them everything. I’m not about to narrate where exactly his hand was when I forgot my own name. But I tell them enough—the way I ended up in his lap, how deliberatehe was with his hands, his fingers. How I got down, and the lift crew spoiled the party for him.
Anna listens with that quiet, intent face she gets when she’s assembling a puzzle. Eva covers her mouth more than once, eyes huge, then drops her hand to whisper, “You finally did it. You asked for the dick.”
I snort. “Technically, my hand asked first. My mouth needed a minute to catch up.”
For a moment, the chalet noise recedes. I’m back in that cabin with his heartbeat under my palm and his voice in my ear.
Eva stares at me like I’ve just won Olympic gold. “I am so proud of you I could cry.”
“Please don’t cry,” I say. “I barely survived getting my boots off. I can’t handle tears.”
They both sit back a little at that. The moment stretches, warm and fizzing and a little unreal.
Then my phone, buried in my jacket pocket on the back of the chair, goes off with a sharp, electronic beep.
Start gate beep. Of course.
All three of us jump.
Eva squints at my jacket. “Was that… a start beep?”
Anna blinks. “Please tell me you did not set your notification tone to the start gate beep.”
I feel my face heat. “Maybe.”
“Of course you did,” Eva says, delighted. “You absolute nerd.”
The beep sounds again—a second reminder. Whoever it is isn’t giving up. My stomach does a small, traitorous swoop.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, fishing my phone out with fingers that suddenly don’t feel like they belong to me. The screen lights up, and there it is.
Instagram. One new message. Sender: the handle I’ve tapped a hundred times this year just to watch a man ski on my tiny screen.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at it. The chalet blurs at the edges; the music turns into white noise. My thumb is damp on the glass.
“Zlata,” Anna says softly. “Breathe.”
“Is it him?” Eva demands, already craning her neck.
I don’t answer. I swipe, open the DM, and the little typing bubble is gone—message fully there, waiting.
Hey.
About earlier… that was special and weird and completely unexpected.
If you want to leave it there, I understand. It was intense, and the situation was not exactly normal.
But if you don’t regret it and you’d like to see me again—
even just for dinner or a drink somewhere the floor doesn’t move—
