Page 76 of Hold the Line

“Nothing and nobody will ever take me away from you,” he promises fiercely, still buried deep as he pulses inside me. “Not the police. Not the past. Not anyone. I am yours, Cole. I will always be yours. You hear me? I killed for you once. I would do it again. I would burn the whole fucking world if it meant keeping you safe.”

I collapse against his chest, still crying softly as the last waves of pleasure and panic mix together. Viktor’s arms wrap around me tight, one hand stroking through my curls, the other rubbing slow circles on my back.

“You are safe,” he murmurs against my hair. “We are safe. It’s over. Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

I nod weakly against his chest, sniffling, completely wrecked but starting to feel… grounded. Loved in the most terrifying, beautiful way possible.

Two weeks later and the house still feels like a fortress Cole has built around himself.

I have reassured him more times than I can count. Nobody is coming for me. Not the police, not anyone. I know for a fact my father’s case was closed as simple alcohol poisoning — no investigation, no suspicion, nothing. We are safe. But Cole has barely left the house except for practice and games. He is spiraling quietly, the kind of spiral that looks like normal Cole on the surface but is all sharp edges underneath.

I am in the living room when I hear the shower turn off. A few minutes later Cole comes out with towel wrapped low around his waist, water still dripping from his curls. He looks determined. Too determined.

“I figured it out,” he declares.

I look up from where I am sitting on the couch. “Cole…”

“No, listen. I’ve narrowed it down.” He walks closer, still damp and beautiful and clearly running on anxiety and too little sleep.

I stand up and go to him, running my fingers through his wet curls, trying to ground him. “Baby…”

“If we flee,” he starts, eyes bright with that frantic energy I have come to recognize too well.

“Soroka…”

“Argentina, Iceland or New Zealand. I think New Zealand is safest.”

I stare at him.

He keeps going, words tumbling out faster. “I looked at everything — visas, new identities, how to disappear without raising flags. We could sell the houses, transfer money quietly, get new passports if we have to. I have contacts, I can—” He does not have contacts. I do.

I pull him into my chest, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other still in his hair, holding him tight against me. He is shaking slightly. The laptop on the coffee table is still open, every tab a roadmap to running away. I do not close them. I just hold him.

“Cole,” I murmur into his wet hair. “We are not fleeing. No one is coming. I promise you.”

He makes a small, frustrated sound against my chest but doesn’t pull away.

“We could do it quietly, Vik. Sell everything under different names, move the money through offshore accounts — I looked it up. New Zealand has good privacy laws. We’d be safe. No one would find us. We could change our names, get new passports if we have to, start over completely. Argentina is too obvious, Iceland might be too cold even for you, but New Zealand—"

I watch him for a moment, my heart aching at how deep this fear has dug into him. Then I make a decision.

“How about a date,” I say calmly.

Cole visibly blue-screens, mouth still open mid-sentence. “Uhm… I don’t know, Vik. After playoffs? Or maybe we should run before the playoffs… but then Damian would kill us. Curls would think I abandoned him—”

“No,” I say, stepping closer and gently guiding him toward the bedroom. “A date. Get up.”

He keeps rambling the entire way, barely noticing what I am doing. “We could work as coaches to a kid’s school maybe, or maybe open a private ice rink. I’m fast, I could still skate, teach the kids how to chirp properly—”

I start dressing him. First the underwear, then soft sweatpants, then one of my hoodies because I know he likes wearing them. He barely pauses. I dry his hair with a towel, brush through the curls carefully, put socks on his feet, then shoes. All while he keeps explaining escape routes and backup plans like it is the most normal conversation in the world.

“—and if New Zealand doesn’t work we could go somewhere else, maybe—”

I tie his shoelaces, kneeling in front of him.

Cole freezes, staring down at me with wide, confused eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks.

I look up at him, my hands still on his shoes. “Taking you out on a date.”