Chamonix, France, February 7
éLISE
I wake to an empty bed and the ghost of warmth where he was lying.
The duvet is hoarded on my side and when I stretch, rolling into the dent his body left, the sheets still smell like him. Musk and sleep and something faintly citrus from whatever soap he uses that costs nothing and somehow works better than anything I own.
I bury my face in his pillow for one indulgent second, then sit up, hair a mess, wearing his T-shirt because mine are all in the suitcase and his are everywhere.
The flat is silent except for the hum of the old fridge and the muffled clank of a radiator next door.
I pad barefoot into the tiny hall, toes curling against the cold floor.
There's a shelf by the door cluttered with keys, a pile of unopened mail, a stack of race bibs rubber-banded together like trophies he forgot to frame.
One junior trophy sits on the corner; small, cheap plastic, the kind you get for finishing third in a regional event when you're twelve. He kept it.
The kitchen counter is barely big enough for the moka pot, a butter dish, and a jar of jam. There's a sticky note stuck to the countertop, his handwriting loose and rushed.
Gym → hill. Coffee's ready. Wake me up indecently when I'm back.–N
I grin despite myself, peeling the note off and holding it like it's evidence of something I'm not ready to name.
Then I notice the moka pot sitting on the stove, half-full.
He made coffee. For me. Before dawn. Before his brain was even online.
The warmth in my chest is ridiculous and unearned, but I let it spread, anyway.
I try to pour myself a cup. The handle is scalding. I swear in French, grab a dish towel, and manage to tip the pot without spilling all of it.
Success.
I take a sip.
It's strong, slightly bitter, exactly the way I've learned to drink it here. No milk. No sugar. Just coffee and altitude and the faint smugness of a man who thinks leaving me a note counts as romance.
I lean against the counter, cradling the cup in both hands, and look around.
Race bibs. Wax brushes. Boots piled by the door in a heap that would give my mother hives. A single framed photo on the windowsill, him and Thomas and a few other guys, mid-laugh, somewhere snowy and chaotic.
It's not much. But it's his.
And for now, it's mine too.
I pull out my phone and open Instagram, flipping to my close-friends story. Snap a photo of the burned moka pot, the chipped mug, the catastrophic kitchen.
Caption: Domestic goddess. Pray for Nico.
I post it before I can overthink it, grinning at my own ridiculousness.
***
The shower is long and scalding, the kind of luxury I didn't know I needed until I had nowhere to be and no one watching.
I take my time. Moisturizer. His hoodie, oversized, soft, smelling like him. Hair damp and loose because there's no point in blowing it out when the only person who'll see me today is still half asleep on a slope somewhere.
I settle onto the couch with my phone, a laptop, and a second cup of coffee, scrolling through articles about Nico's season.
Austria's Rising Star.
Reiner's Chances After Schladming Collapse.
Will His Messy Personal Life Get In The Way?
Every headline makes my chest tighten in a way I don't want to examine.
I click through to a video. Highlights from Beaver Creek. The way he launches off Golden Eagle, body compact, skis aligned, landing so deep it looks impossible.
I watch it three times.
My pulse picks up every time he's airborne.
I'm still watching when my email pings.
I swipe over and my eyes go wide. It’s the cosmetics brand that pays me generously for featuring their product, they are firing me.
Yesterday, I got the same message from Audi, but it didn’t bother me much.
That contract was attached to me driving to luxurious places, of course, they didn’t want to pay for posts from a calm alpine village.
But this cosmetic brand had been with me for three years, and now they are firing me. Why?
I sigh and brace myself to open the calendar.
No Eiswerk tasks. Of course, they did not end the contract officially, they wouldn’t. They were just told to get by without me until father thinks I am worthy of their attention again.
I frown. Could he pull strings with an Austrian cosmetics brand as well? Would he care to be that effective? Learn what face cream I use and post about it with proper hashtags and do whatever he does to make them fire me? Should I expect other contracts to dry out?
A wave of cold dread washes over me. Those contracts are my only source of income, it has never been much, but it was the only money I could bring with me into this tiny apartment. When it’s gone, Nico will be the only one with a paycheck.
I open my calendar app.
It's empty except for race dates on the weekend.
His races. Not mine.
I stare at the screen, the coffee going cold in my hand.
I finally stepped out of my father's schedule, and I somehow landed in nobody's. Not even my own.
The thought isn't panic. Not yet.
Just a ripple. Small. Quiet. Easy to ignore.
I open my laptop and click on LinkedIn. Scroll through postings. Marketing Manager—requires five years’ experience. PR Coordinator—entry-level, barely pays rent. Brand Consultant—my father's name is the first thing any interviewer will Google.
I close the laptop.
What am I even qualified to do? Smile at cameras? Approve logo placements? Be decorative?
Outside, the mountains are sharp and white against the sky. Inside, the radiator clanks. The fridge hums.
And I sit here in his hoodie, in his flat, waiting for him to come back so I can feel like I have a reason to be awake.
I take another sip of coffee and tell myself this is fine.
I'm happy. I'm free. I'm exactly where I want to be. With the man I chose.
The man who will finally let me breathe fresh air.
***
I'm halfway through my second terrible cup of coffee when I hear his boots on the landing.
Heavy. Uneven. The dull thud of something large being dropped by the door, then the scrape of a key that doesn't quite fit the lock on the first try.
I set the mug down and cross the tiny living room in three steps.
When I open the door, Nico is standing there with two supermarket bags dangling from one hand and his ski boots slung over the opposite shoulder, face flushed from cold and exertion, hair sticking up in every direction under his beanie.
He grins when he sees me. The kind of grin that says he's still half on the mountain.
"Starving yet?" he asks.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I've been abandoned in the Austrian Alps for five hours. I'm practically feral."
He lifts the grocery bags like trophies. "Relax. I hunted discount carbs for my princess."
Despite myself, I laugh.
He shoulders past me into the flat, drops the boots with a satisfying thunk, and carries the bags straight to the kitchen counter. Snow melts off his jacket onto the floor. He doesn't notice.
I follow, watching as he starts unpacking. Pasta. Eggs. Bell peppers. A block of cheese wrapped in plastic that looks aggressively orange. Cheap chocolate with the Spar label.
"Your empire smells like snow and sweat," I say, wrinkling my nose.
He doesn't even look up. "Mortgage shoebox," he corrects, still grinning as he shoves the milk into the fridge next to a row of protein shakes. "This is my empire."
There's pride in his voice. Real pride. Not the defensive kind I'm used to hearing when men talk about money, the kind that puffs up to cover insecurity. This is different. Quieter. Confident.
He bought this place when he was twenty-one. Saved every cent from prize money and junior sponsorships while most of his teammates were still living in federation housing or their parents' basements.
It's not much. But it's his.
I pick up the chocolate bar, turn it over in my hands. "You know they make chocolate that doesn't come in bulk packaging, right?"
"Yeah, and it costs three times as much and tastes like someone's feelings." He snatches it back, tosses it onto the counter. "This one's honest."
I bite back a smile.
He cracks the fridge again, rearranging things with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Protein shakes lined up like soldiers. Vegetables in the drawer. Cheese carefully placed where it won't get crushed.
"Good training?" I ask, leaning my hip against the counter.
"Yeah." His voice is lighter now, buzzing. "Snow's holding. Next speed block's coming after Chamonix—big one. But Chamonix first. Tech weekend."
He's still moving, restless, hands never quite still. Unpacking. Reorganizing. Talking without looking at me.
"Sections felt good today," he adds, almost to himself. "Clean. Fast. Whatever happened in Schladming—it's fixable. I know it is."
I watch him. The way his shoulders sit a little higher than usual. The way his jaw isn't tight, for once. The way he keeps glancing around the flat like he's checking to make sure everything's still in place.
And then his eyes land on me, standing barefoot in his hoodie with damp hair and yesterday's mascara smudged under my eyes, and something in his expression shifts.
Softens.
Like I'm the proof that today was a good day.
He tosses the cheese onto the counter a little too enthusiastically. It skids toward the edge.
I catch it, one eyebrow raised. "Careful with the Gouda, champion."
"Don't drop it," he says, mock-serious. "That's premium fuel."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling.
For a moment, the flat doesn't feel small at all.
It feels exactly the right size.
***
The kitchen is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two.
I'm standing at the counter with a cutting board and an onion that's already making my eyes water, trying to remember the last time I actually cooked something that didn't come from a restaurant kitchen or a catering tray.
Nico leans over my shoulder, watching. "You're supposed to cut it, not murder it."
"I am cutting it."
"You're hacking. There's a difference."