Chapter Eleven
LUKA
I leave because staying is no longer an option.
Steam still clings to the air when I pull on my base layer, the bathroom mirror fogged from a shower I didn’t expect to share—even without looking. My pulse hasn’t settled. My jaw aches from clenching it too hard, for too long.
I warned her.
I knocked. I gave her time. Told her I was coming in. She told me to wait, and I didn’t.
Now all I can think about is the water rolling over my shoulders and the subtle shift of her behind me, the awareness of her presence three feet away with nothing between us but steam and stubbornness.
I lied about the morning erection. Not because I’m embarrassed—I’m not—but because admitting the truth would’ve given her something. And I don’t give people leverage.
But the truth is, I didn’t wake up calm.
Not after the way she looked at me in the bar last night, after she came to find me just to ask if I was going to kiss her on the slope.
Not after that almost-kiss that turned into both of us pretending we weren’t affected.
Not after falling asleep with her beside me in thin pajamas, close enough that I could feel her heat through the sheets.
Of course I was thinking about her.
And that’s exactly why I have to go.
So I grab my jacket, shove my gloves into my pocket, and leave the chalet before my brain can start inventing reasons to stay. The door clicks shut behind me, and the cold hits me, reminding me of why I’m here and why I took back my shower. Getting on the ski run first.
The lifts are already running. The mountain awake in that way it gets before the tourists' crowd in.
Distance creates clarity, and proximity breeds mistakes. I stayed too long with her in my hands yesterday when I caught her from falling, let her get under my skin with that smug little smile and her refusal to back down.
Then, at the bar, her text threw me off. I wasn’t expecting that at all; I won't wait up. Goodnight.
I adjust my goggles and scan the mountain.
First lift, first tracks—that's the goal.
Speed and silence and the kind of exhaustion that scrubs your head clean.
By the time I come back down, she'll be awake, dressed, and probably working on saving my career on her laptop like she keeps claiming.
We'll slip back into our separate orbits like last night never happened.
Problem solved.
"Luka!"
The voice cuts through the quiet, bright and cheerful and entirely unwelcome.
I turn to see Annabella in full ski gear headed straight for me.
She's already at the lift line, blonde hair spilling out from under a white hat, her ski suit the kind of fitted thing designed to be noticed.
She waves as if we're old friends, as if we didn't just exchange names and twenty minutes of conversation last night before I made it clear I wasn't interested.
Apparently, she missed that memo.
"I thought I’d find you here," she says, stepping in close with the kind of familiarity I haven’t earned and don’t plan to encourage. "You said you always take the first lift."
I don't remember saying that. But I probably did. An autopilot small talk to keep her around when Natalia walked into the bar.
"Early start," I say, keeping my tone flat.
"Me too. I love the mountains like this—so quiet, you know? Just us and the snow." She grins, tilting her head. "Lucky we ran into each other."
Luck… Right.
The lift attendant waves us forward. I could wait. Let her go up alone and take the next chair. But that requires explanation, and explanation requires conversation, and I'm done with both.
So I slide into position beside her and let the chair scoop us up. It creaks as it starts its slow ascent, and Annabella immediately shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine.
"So," she says, voice light, teasing. "You left pretty quickly last night."
"Had to make sure I was well-rested for today."
"Hm." She laughs softly. "Well, I'm glad you came back out. I thought maybe I scared you off."
"You didn't." Which isn't a lie. She didn't scare me. I'm just not interested. It's as simple as that.
The lift keeps climbing.
Annabella says something else—about the snow conditions, about how she loves mornings like this—but I'm not listening anymore.
Through the trees far below, I catch movement on the bunny hill.
Two figures. One in black ski gear that looks just like the woman I’ve been sleeping next to for the last three nights. The other in a red instructor's jacket.
Natalia.
And Zack.
He's standing close, adjusting her poles, saying something that makes her laugh. Even from this distance, I can see the way her posture relaxes, the way she tilts her head.
Something tightens in my chest.
I should look away. Focus on the run ahead. That's why I'm here—first lift, first tracks, the kind of speed that clears your head.
But I don't look away.
The lift reaches the summit, and I'm already pushing off before the chair reaches the unloading zone.
"Luka—hey!" Annabella's voice follows me, bright and playful. "Last one down gives the winner a massage!"
I don't answer and look back. I just ski.
Fast and aggressive. Carving hard down the main run, my edges biting deep, powder spraying behind me. Other skiers blur past as I cut through the traffic, taking the fall line straight down.
I don't know why I'm moving this fast.
Don't know why my pulse is hammering or why every instinct in my body is screaming to get back down the mountain.
I just know I need to be closer to the bunny hill.
The base appears through the trees. I skidded to a stop at the lift line—not the one I just came from, but the smaller one that services the beginner slopes. The one that will take me right over the bunny hill.
I slide into position. The chair scoops me up.
And now I'm closer.
Close enough to see them clearly.
Zack is demonstrating something now—turns, probably, or how to stop. Natalia watches with the kind of focus she brings to everything, like she's memorizing his movements, cataloging them for future use.
She's reckless. That's what I tell myself. She doesn't know her limits, doesn't understand how fast things can go wrong on a mountain. Zack might be good, but he doesn't know her. Doesn't know that she'll push too hard, try to prove something, and refuse to quit even when she should.
The lift climbs higher, and I'm about to force my attention away when Natalia starts moving.
Zack gives her a gentle push, and she glides forward—slow, controlled, exactly how you're supposed to start.
See? Fine. She's fine.
But then she picks up speed.
Not much. Just a little. Enough that her posture shifts, her balance wobbling as gravity takes over.
Zack calls out something, and she adjusts, her skis angling into a wedge.
Pizza. The universal beginner's move.
It works for a few seconds, and then it doesn't.
She's moving faster now, the slope pulling her down with more force than she's ready for. Her arms windmill slightly, poles flailing, and even from up here I can see the moment panic sets in.
She forgets how to stop. Or maybe she never knew. Either way, she's accelerating, heading straight down the fall line toward the edge of the run where the trees start.
Zack yells something—"Pizza! Turn!"—but his voice has an edge now, his easygoing demeanor replaced by urgency, his shoulders rising with tension.
Shit. She's not stopping.
And I know, with a certainty that bypasses thought, bypasses logic, that I will get to her first…. because I have to. I don't think about the next part. Thinking is what gets you hurt. I just move.
The lift is still ten feet off the ground, but I don't wait. I release the bar, swing my legs forward, and launch.
Annabella shouts behind me. I’m not sure how she figured out that I was on the bunny hill lift, but I'm already landing, skis biting into snow, knees absorbing the impact. Pain jolts through my shins, sharp and immediate, but I'm already pushing forward, carving a hard line down the slope.
Natalia is maybe a hundred yards away. Unfortunately, the tree is closer.
Zack is yelling again, skiing after her, but he's too far and his angle is wrong.
I'm faster.
I cut across the slope, letting gravity do the work, my edges screaming as I carve tighter, harder, every muscle in my body locked on one thing—reach her.
She sees me. I catch the flash of her face turning, eyes wide, but there's no time for recognition, no time for anything except the last ten feet between us and the moment I wrap my arm around her waist and pull.
She gasps and then we're turning, momentum carrying us in a wide, controlled arc away from the trees. I twist my body, putting myself between her and the ground as we skid to a stop in a spray of snow.
Her chest heaves against mine, breath coming fast and shallow. My arm is still around her, locked tight, my hand splayed across her ribs.
She's shaking with adrenaline, and fuck… so am I.
"You're okay," I hear myself say, and my voice sounds wrong. Too rough, too raw. "You're okay."
She doesn't answer. She just curls herself into me tighter, her cheek against my chest, she tries to catch her breath. Then, finally, she stares up at me, eyes dark and wide, still caught in the adrenaline spike.
I should let her go, but for some unknown reason, I just can’t.
My hands stay on her longer than necessary—one around her waist, the other braced against her shoulder, holding her steady against me. Or maybe holding myself steady. I can feel her heartbeat through the layers of jacket and fleece, can feel the way her breath stutters and evens out.
She’s alive and safe, and that’s all that matters right now.
"You saved my life," she says.
I lean down closer, about ready to kiss her when her name echoes off the snow-covered mountains around us.
"Natalia!"
Zack skids to a stop beside us, breathing hard, his face flushed with exertion and concern. He crouches down, eyes scanning her for injuries.
"Are you hurt? Did you hit anything?"