She laughs, but it’s brittle around the edges. “You want me to get sentimental about it?”
“No,” I say, maybe a little too fast. Then quieter: “I just don’t buy it.”
For a second, she looks at me like I’ve said something unfair, but then she masks it. Always so damn fast to hide.
“You’re the one who said it wasn’t serious,” she throws back.
“Yeah, because that’s what you wanted to hear.”
Her silence right after should feel like relief, but instead, it crawls under my skin. She keeps doing this—daring me to prove she matters, then acting surprised when I try.
Finally, she asks it, voice softer this time, almost careful: “So whatarewe, then?”
I stare at the ceiling again. Honestly? I don’t have a clean answer. I don’t want to lie, either.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “But it’s not just sex. If it were, I wouldn’t keep wanting to see you when I don’t have to. You… get under my skin.”
The words feel like too much as they leave my mouth, the kind that you can’t take back once they’re in the air.
She doesn’t say anything. Just hides a smile against my shoulder, like she doesn’t want me to see it. And maybe that’s enough for now.
I glance at the clock. “Come on. Max is waiting in the ski depot.”
She pushes up on one elbow. “What?”
“I arranged a lesson for you.”
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing in that mix of disbelief and amusement.
“You booked me a ski tuning lesson?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to grin. “If you’re going to keep invading my off-days, you might as well learn something useful out there.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, the kind that hits somewhere low in my chest. I tell myself it’s nothing—but it doesn’t feel like nothing. Not anymore.
***
I carry her skis from the car myself and set them on the workbench. They’re heavy, narrow, the kind meant for speed more than comfort, but the edges are dull and the bases a patchwork of old wax. Max whistles low when he sees them.
“Pretty sticks,” he says, thumbing the tip. “Haven’t had a lady bring her own set in a while.”
“Thanks,” she says, voice a little tight.
“She tunes them herself,” I say. “I told her you’d show her the right way.”
That gets a grin out of him. “Ah, so this isthestudent you promised me.”
She steps forward then, all bright curiosity, fingertips tracing the top sheet like it’s something sacred. “They’re fine,” she says. “Just… probably neglected.”
Max chuckles. “We’ll fix that. Tuning’s all about rhythm.” He flips one ski into the clamp, angles the lamp closer. The air smells faintly of wax and metal as he starts working, slow, deliberate strokes of the file on the edge.
She leans in, studying the motion, her face open and intent. I unpack the rest from her bag—brushes, wax, iron—but the truth is I’m mostly watching her. The concentration, the quiet fascination, how completely she gives herself to learning.
When Max passes her the file, she mimics his angle, careful but firm. The scrape of steel against steel is clean.
He nods approvingly, then tilts the ski to catch the light. “See that reflection? That’s what you want — no burrs, no chatter.” He runs a thumb along the edge. “Now, this exact angle determines how fast you can commit. Steeper gives more grip, but it punishes you if your balance is off. Racers live around one degree base, eighty-seven sides. For free skiing, you can soften to eighty-eight, maybe eighty-nine.”
She listens like he’s narrating a secret. “And the wax changes everything, too?”
