Chapter 14 #3
"What do you want me to say?" He turns around, finally, and his face is exhausted. "I've got Kvitfjell in three days. I don't have the bandwidth to vet your résumé right now."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not asking you to vet it. I'm telling you I'm doing it."
"Then do it." His tone is flat, dismissive. "I don't care."
"You do care."
"élise, I just said it's fine."
"You said it like it's a nuisance."
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "I'm not doing this right now."
"Doing what?"
"Fighting. I just got back from physio. I'm tired. My knee is fucked. I don't need to come home and have you pick a fight because I didn't react the right way to your job posting."
"I'm not picking a fight. I'm trying to tell you something that matters to me, and you're acting like I'm interrupting your recovery routine."
"Maybe because you are."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
He looks away first, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did."
"élise—"
"You want me here," I say, voice low and steady. "But you don't actually want me. You want the version of me that sits quietly and doesn't need anything. The pet you can cuddle when you come home feeling like shit about yourself."
His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"I never asked you to be that."
"You didn't have to ask. You just assumed."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then, quietly: "I didn't assume. I just... I thought this was working."
"It was working. When it was easy. When it was just sex and rebellion and no one had to think about what happens when it stops being fun."
"It's still fun."
"Is it?"
He doesn't answer.
I close the laptop again. Stand. Walk to the window and stare at the same black mountains he was staring at a minute ago.
"You want to know what I think?" I say, not looking at him. "I think you're terrified that I'll leave. But you're even more terrified that I'll stay and start thinking that you're not enough."
"élise."
"And instead of dealing with that, you're just... pushing me away. Little by little. So when I finally do leave, you can tell yourself it was my choice."
He's behind me now. I can feel him. Smell him. The sweat and the cold and the faint chemical tang of the ice pack.
"I'm not pushing you away," he says.
"Then what are you doing?"
"I don't know."
I turn around. He's so close I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders sag under the weight of everything he's carrying.
"I don't know how to do this," he says quietly. "I don't know how to be the guy you need and the guy everyone else needs at the same time."
"I don't need you to be anyone. I just need you to let me be someone."
He reaches for me. I let him. His hands cup my face, and for a second, it almost feels like it used to.
Then he kisses me.
It's desperate. Rough. Like he's trying to fix something with his mouth that his words can't reach.
I kiss him back because I don't know what else to do.
***
He's packing when I wake up.
Not the slow, lazy kind of packing where you fold things and double-check the list. The efficient, mechanical kind. Duffel open on the bed, suit and base layers rolled tight like he's done this a thousand times. Because he has.
I watch from the doorway, arms crossed, still in his T-shirt from last night.
"What time's the bus?" I ask.
"Seven." He doesn't look up. Just keeps moving: knee brace, tape, extra socks, the small bag of supplements he pretends aren't a big deal.
"That's early."
"Yeah."
I step into the room, sit on the edge of the bed. My knee brushes the duffel. "I could come with you."
He pauses. Just for a second. Then keeps packing.
"To Kvitfjell?"
"Yeah. Keep you company. I asked Katharina. There’re spare rooms in your hotel."
He zips the duffel halfway, tests the weight, unzips it again. "It's not a good weekend for it."
"Why not?"
"I just need to focus. Tunnel vision. No distractions."
The word lands wrong. I feel it in my chest before I can stop it.
"Distractions."
"élise, you know what I mean."
"Do I?"
He sits down beside me, the duffel between us like a barrier. "I just need this weekend to work. Kvitfjell is huge. Double downhill. If I can pull off two solid runs, I'm back in the rankings for the overall. Back in the conversation. Back in..."
He doesn't finish.
"Back in control," I say quietly.
"Yeah."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that I wouldn't be a distraction, that I could help, that he doesn't have to do this alone.
But I also know what he's not saying.
He can't afford to bring me. Not emotionally.
And he definitely can't afford for me to watch him fail again.
"Okay," I say.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"Yeah. Go. Do your thing. I'll be here when you get back."
He searches my face like he's waiting for the catch. When he doesn't find one, he leans in and kisses me. It's soft, brief, almost apologetic.
"I'll bring back a trophy," he says, grinning. "And a better mood."
"You better."
He stands, zips the duffel, slings it over his shoulder. He's halfway to the door when I say his name.
"Nico."
He turns.
"Be careful."
He smiles. That easy, golden-boy smile that used to make my stomach flip. Now it just makes me sad.
"Always am."
Then he's gone.
I stay in bed for a while after the door closes. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the radiator clank.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A notification from the Vektor careers page. Your application is being reviewed.
I applied last night. After he fell asleep. After the sex that felt like a performance we were both too tired to quit.
I didn't tell him about this job.
I don't know if I will.
I get up, make coffee, open my laptop. The flat is too quiet without him. It always is.
I pull up the live timing for Kvitfjell. The first training run is tomorrow.
I'll watch. I always watch.
Even when I wish I didn't.
***