I exhale hard, forcing my shoulders to drop. The cold air stings my lungs.
It would be easy to blame that whole ride on the situation. Storm, fear, stopped cable—that cocktail can make anyone do stupid things. I’ve had more than one mental coach tell me that people show their craziest selves under pressure. Not that I am a fan of mental coaching, as coaches keep reminding me since Alta Badia this season.
But watching her now, balanced over her edges with that mix of competence and joy, I know it wasn’t just the storm. If it were, my heart wouldn’t be speeding up just because I see her tip into another turn. I wouldn’t have rearranged an entire training block to be standing here at 10:25, waiting to catch one more glimpse before riding a gondola at exactly 10:30 with exactly her.
She carves the last few gates of the public corridor like they’re a set only she can see, then lets the skis run for the final pitch, straightening into a fast, controlled glide past the lift queue. For a second, she’s level with me. She doesn’t look over—goggles on, buff up, focused on the flat ahead—but my body reacts like she did. A little jolt, low and insistent.
I let myself coast after her, keeping a few meters back. No need to catch up, no need to call her name. We made a plan. Bottom station, 10:30. Gondola.
My legs are cooling down, but everything else in me feels keyed up, sharp. I’m not entirely sure whether that’s good for my racing head or a disaster waiting to happen.
Either way, I’m about to find out.
By the time I slide into the lift maze, she’s already clicked out, skis over her shoulder, heading for the gondola entrance. I keep just enough distance not to crowd her, helmet in my hand,goggles still on. No need to invite recognition before I even get in the cabin.
The clock above the turnstiles flicks to 10:29. Close enough.
I let a couple of families funnel into the next two cabins, then angle my shoulders so I end up right behind her at the barrier. She turns as the gate beeps; even with the buff and goggles, I know it’s her.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Her voice does that small dip I remember from the storm—half shy, half amused. “You’re on time.”
“For this?” I shrug. “I’d be early.”
The next cabin swings in empty. I step in, slot my skis into the rack, and stand to one side so she can follow. The doors slide shut with that soft, final thump, and the station noise falls away as we lift off the platform.
For a few seconds, we just stand there facing each other, each with our gear in our hands, like strangers sharing a lift. It’s ridiculous, considering I know exactly how she sounds when she forgets to be quiet.
“How was your morning?” I try, because someone has to say something. And take off my googles, because I need to see her with my own eyes.
“Good,” she says. “Snow’s nicer than yesterday. Fewer near-death experiences.”
“Always a plus,” I say. The cabin sways slightly; our boots bump.
The small talk hangs in the air for a moment, thin and useless. We both know why we’re here. Outside, the ground drops away; pylons slide past. Inside, the space between us feels very smalland very charged. She places her helmet on the bench, and for a moment, disappointment hits me because her hair is loose, not in those two cute braids. One day, I’ll ask her to wear them for me.
She takes one step closer, enough that the tips of her boots nudge mine. Her hand comes up, gloved fingers catching lightly in the front of my suit as the cabin gives a little sway. She could use the movement as an excuse. She doesn’t. She stays there, holding on.
I can see her eyes now through the goggles—dark, steady, no panic. Just intent.
“This is weird,” she says quietly. “Pretending we’re just… sharing transport.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m not great at pretending.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. Then her hand tightens, and she tugs me down the last few centimeters.
The first kiss hits like a reset. All the jittery anticipation, all the trying-to-act-normal, burns off in one clean flare. Her mouth is warm and sure, buff pushed down, as she leans in harder. My hands find her waist on instinct, gloves shoved on the floor, fingers spanning the padded jacket, pulling her closer until her chest is pressed to mine.
There’s no storm this time, no stopped cable, no sense of the world ending outside. Just the two of us and the steady hum of the line. If anything, that makes it more intense. She’s not doing this because she thinks she might die. She’s doing it because she came here wanting it.
She breaks the kiss just long enough to shove her gloves down and throw them on the floor. Her eyes are huge, pupils blown. “We’re idiots,” she says, breathless.
“Probably,” I agree, already leaning back in.
I get her zipper halfway down before the cabin lurches over a tower, a reminder that time is not on our side. Somewhere up ahead, the middle station is waiting to ruin this.
She drags the zip down the rest of the way; I slide my hands under her jacket, over the curves I kept replaying all night in my head, feeling the shiver that runs through her at the first touch. Outside, the towers keep ticking past. Inside, the clock might as well not exist for all the attention either of us is paying it.
