“Completely,” Max says, warming to the question. “Cold snow wants graphite or a hard race wax; warm snow wants a softer, lower-temp blend so the base keeps breathing. The trick is matching the iron temperature—melt the wax, don’t burn it. Burn it, and you seal the base pores. That kills your glide.”
She grins. “So that smell I call ‘ski shop perfume’ is actually someone cooking the wax wrong.”
He laughs, delighted. “Yeah, exactly! Ruins the layer. You want a shimmer, not smoke. Feel,” he gestures, motioning her forward. “Run your finger along it—it should be slick, but not greasy.”
She does, eyes bright, and that’s when I notice it again: how she’s all in. She doesn’t flirt, doesn’t perform—she justabsorbs. Max keeps talking—about structure lines, fiber brushes, the way texture channels water out from under the ski—and she’s nodding, drinking in every word.
Max looks twenty years younger teaching her. Most guys come through here half-listless, but this—this is adoration wrapped in honest curiosity.
And me? I can’t stop watching her hands glide along the tuned edge, or the way the light paints the curve of her smile when she gets something right. There’s something magnetic about her here: no poses, no defenses, just focus and pure joy. The heat of the iron, the smell of wax, the sheen of the base catching light—it’s all background to how alive she looks.
When Max finally packs up, he wipes his hands on a rag. “Alright, I’m done for today. Fabio, keep her from ruining my masterpiece, yeah? I’m going for dinner.”
She spins toward me, mock-offended. “You say that like I’m a hazard.”
Max laughs on his way out. “Everyone’s a hazard until they learn patience.”
The door shuts. She bends over the ski again, brushing out the last streaks of cooling wax, utterly absorbed. She’s still bentover the ski, focused like she’s tuning for the Olympics. Max’s tools lie in neat order; the depot is quiet now except for the rhythmic scrape of the file. The late-day light slants in through the high windows, catching wax dust in the air like gold.
I last maybe a minute before walking closer. I tell myself I just want to check her angle—see that she’s not over-cutting—but that’s a lie. I just want to be near her again.
She grips the file a little too tight, adjusts the pressure, and then—tiny hiss of pain.
“Ah, damn.”
Before she can even react, I’ve already reached for her hand. A thin line of red along her fingertip. Nothing serious. Still, an excuse as good as any.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” she says, but doesn’t pull away.
I take her finger into my mouth, instinct more than thought. Salt, metal, her skin. She goes still instantly, breath catching in her throat. The taste of wax and blood lingers, and for a moment, everything slows—the sound, the air, the distance that isn’t there anymore.
When I let go, she doesn’t move right away. Just looks at me with that half-smile she can’t quite hide, eyes flicking from my mouth back to the rows of skis on the wall.
“You know,” she says slowly, teasing edge returning, “for a true fan of yours, this would be the perfect place for it. All your skis looking on.”
I laugh under my breath, still too aware of her hand in mine. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“I’m multitasking,” she murmurs. “Bleeding and fantasizing at the same time.”
“Efficient.”
She smirks, but her gaze lingers, and the depot feels smaller for it. I take the file from her hand, fingers grazing her skin—a simple touch, but it sparks like I’ve struck metal.
Neither of us speaks. She stays turned toward the workbench, one hand resting on the ski like she’s steadying herself, but her breathing says otherwise.
I set the file down. Move closer.
The heat from her body cuts through the chill of the concrete floor, the wax, the iron cooling on the bench. Her hair brushes my jaw when I lean in, the scent of resin and snow mixing with sweat and something that feels painfully familiar.
“Fabio…” Soft, uncertain, but not stopping me.
My hand finds her hip, a slow claim, thumb tracing the line between fabric and skin. The sound she makes isn’t words—it’s the kind of breath that wipes out thought.
That’s all it takes. One heartbeat more, and the space between us disappears. She fists my jacket and pulls me closer into a hard kiss, our tongues tangled, teeth scraping. This is not the gentle moment like my bedroom before; she’s raw and alive in this place, and it makes me go wild. Moreover, after watching her for two hours admiring another man, as innocent as it was, I feel like I need to own her. And she doesn’t protest.
I trace my lips along her ear, her neck, and bite lightly on the sensitive spot where her neck ends and her delicate shoulder begins. Sliding her jacket and shirt from her shoulder, bitingit a little harder. She moans aloud and lets her head fall back, offering her throat for my lips.
