He smiles. “I’m terrible at compliments,” he agrees. “But I’m not lying.”
The main course arrives, mercifully breaking the intensity. Plates land between us in a burst of smells—fried crumbs, lemon, hot potatoes slick with butter and parsley. We talk over schnitzel, technically, about my Masters training group and hisyounger teammates, about the mental whiplash of going from chasing Luca Costner to being chased by Thomas Kern. I nod at the right moments, ask questions, but half my brain is busy cataloging the way his sleeves pull tight over his forearms when he cuts his meat, how his voice drops a fraction when he admits he hates skiing safely.
Under the table, something else is happening. Our knees keep finding each other by accident at first, a brush here, a bump there. Each time it sparks a little jolt low in my stomach, and each time it takes a beat longer for either of us to move away. His gaze lingers a fraction too long when I lick a bit of salt off my lip; I feel the heat of it like a touch. The air between us thickens, a slow, steady press.
By the time we’re halfway through the potatoes, I’m not entirely sure what I’m tasting anymore. The food is good; my body doesn’t care. All my awareness has slid south, to where my thighs are pressed together, and my skin remembers far too clearly what his hand felt like between them. Every shift in my chair sends a little echo through me.
He’s not much better. His jaw has that tight set I recognize from TV—the one he gets in the start gate when he’s trying very hard not to think about what’s at the bottom. His hand wraps around his water glass a little too firmly; a tendon jumps in his wrist. Under the table, his foot taps, restless, nudging mine in a rhythm that has nothing to do with nerves before a race and everything to do with restraint.
The waitress comes by to ask about dessert. We both say “No” at the same time, too fast.
“Maybe later,” I add to her confusednod.
When she leaves, he exhales slowly. “This is… difficult,” he says.
“Conversation?” I ask, though we both know what he means.
He gives me a look that’s almost offended. “No. I like talking to you. That’s the problem.”
“That you like talking to me?”
“That I like talking to you, and I can’t stop imagining you on my lap again while you’re telling me about your boot fit,” he says bluntly. His ears flush. “It’s very distracting.”
Heat licks low in my stomach. I take a sip of wine I don’t need. “The feeling’s mutual,” I admit. “Every time you say ‘outside ski’, I have an inappropriate reaction.”
He chokes on his water. When he recovers, his eyes are darker.
“We could stay,” he says. “Have coffee. Talk about gear. Pretend we’re normal people on a normal date.”
“Could,” I say. My pulse is hammering in my ears.
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Or,” he says, through gritted teeth, “we could get the bill, and I can finally stop pretending I’m not hard for you under this table.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, half shock, half triumph. That’s it, I realize, the high I’ve been chasing without naming it: not just the sex, but this—watching a man like him, so composed in every interview, barely holding it together because ofme.
“For once,” I say, voice low, “I really like the second option.”
The waiter brings the bill; Fabio pays without really looking at it. His leg is bouncing under the table now, a controlled little vibration like a ski chattering on ice.
“Come on,” he says, standing. “Before I change my mind and start lecturing you about edge angles again.”
We step out into the cold. The air bites at my cheeks; the sky over the village is a soft, cloudy black, streetlights turning the falling snow into static. He walks beside me, hands in his pockets, close enough that our shoulders almost brush.
“Where are we going?” I ask, though I already know.
“My place,” he says. “Well, my room. Chalet across the road.”
We wait at a crossing for a car to pass. My breath fogs in front of me; so does his. It feels suddenly very quiet.
I tilt my head. “So how does it usually work, then? Under normal circumstances. How does a fan get from the finish area into your bed?”
His mouth twists, half amused, half resigned. “Usually?” he says. “There’s a bar, or a party. Someone flirts, or a friend introduces us. Sometimes there’s a DM. It’s… blurry. Faces, names. Fun, but not very precise.”
“And you talk about it?” I ask.
“Not really.” He shrugs. “A couple of guys like to brag. I don’t.”
I huff out a breath. “So I’m already weird,” I say. “No bar, no party. Just me harassing you about Alta Badia splits and then climbing into your lap in a storm.”
