Something in his expression shifts, softer and a little exasperated at once. "Most beautiful place in the world," he says. "Beautiful girl. Skiing and—" his mouth curves, "—other things, all day. I'd hardly call it a sacrifice, Zlata."
I should say something dry back, something to match his tone and keep us both on safe, lightly sarcastic ground. Instead, what comes out is: "I don't know how to just accept something nice without looking for the catch."
He doesn't laugh at me. He just looks at me steadily. "I know," he says. "That's okay."
"That's not okay," I say. "That's a problem you're signing up for."
"I know what I'm signing up for." He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, unhurried. "And I mean it—save the gratitude for when I actually make a hard choice for you. This is nothing. Stubai in spring with you is nothing. Don't make it into a grand gesture. It's just skiing and time."
My throat does something inconvenient.
"I already screwed up," I say, before I can stop myself. "Before I even gave this a real chance. I ran. Broke it off by text like a coward."
He's quiet for a beat. "It wasn't your best moment," he says finally, mouth twitching. "Texts suck."
"I know."
"But." His hand stills on my arm. "If you hadn't done it—if you'd stayed and let me pull you along in the circus instead—you wouldn't have dealt with what you needed to dealwith." He pauses. "And I doubt the old messy Fabio would now have a crystal globe to polish."
The words land somewhere deep and quiet. I've been carrying the guilt of the text, the abruptness, the look on his face in the photos from Adelboden after. Hearing him say this doesn't exactly erase it; it just makes it smaller. Manageable.
"You don't have to absolve me," I say softly.
"I'm not absolving you," he replies. "I'm telling you how it is. You were right." His eyes find mine in the dim light. "But Zlata?"
"Yes?"
"Don't do that again."
Not a threat. Not even quite a demand. Just two people who have both done enough running to know what it costs.
"I won't," I say. And I mean it in a way I haven't meant many things.
He holds my gaze for another second, checking, then nods once, satisfied, and lies back down. His arm pulls me in again, and I go without a fight, cheek finding the warm skin of his shoulder, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
Outside the window, the last light is leaving the mountain. The room gets dimmer. The globe on the nightstand catches the last blue of dusk through the curtains and throws it back softly, as if keeping it safe.
I don't say anything else for a long time.
Neither does he.
It's enough.
Epilogue
Reiteralm, Austria
ZLATA
The snow at Reiteralm looks exactly like the last weekend of the season should look: tired.
The slopes are still white where it matters, but the edges of the hill are all brown grass and grey ice, dirty piles of old snow slumped around the car park like somebody forgot to take the decorations down. Kids in numbered bibs dart between the parked cars, skis over their shoulders, parents jogging behind carrying forgotten poles. There’s a group of older guys in race suits so vintage they should probably be in a museum, trying to out-flex each other in the registrationline.
I stand in the middle of it all in my own cheap race suit, neon yellow with a cushioning that will barely protect my arms from the gates. Luckily, I won't be skiing that close to them, anyway.
I feel ridiculous and exhilarated in equal parts, like I’ve accidentally walked into somebody else’s race.
My number is low enough to make my stomach flutter. Masters women 30+ isn’t exactly packed, but still. A start number is a start number.
