Epilogue
Seoul Two Years Later
The Olympic ice arena glistened in the daylight, shining like a jewel at the center of it all.
It was a cathedral of sorts, flooded with thousands of people raising their flags from all around the globe—fascinating, really.
The chill from the rink seeped into the stands, but no one seemed to notice or pay attention.
The energy in the room was electric, a tide of excitement that lit fire in all of our hearts.
Yesoh sat in the first row, closer to the rink than she'd ever been—it was the row reserved for friends and family of the competitors.
She wore Wynter's jacket, the navy blue one with the Olympic rings on it that read "KWON" on the back.
She held both the Korean and British flags for him, even though he was competing for England.
The roar of the audience was deafening as the announcer's voice echoed through: "Next on the ice, representing the United Kingdom: Wynter Kwon! "
The very mention of his name sent a surge of applause rippling through the stands.
Yesoh's heart leapt hearing the crowd screaming the name of the man that she loved and who loved her.
She adjusted her scarf as she watched him skate into the spotlight.
He was dressed in a sleek midnight blue costume with faint silver accents that caught the light like shards of starlight.
He radiated effortless confidence, his posture poised, his movements graceful.
Yesoh knew, however, that she was the only person in those stands who knew just how hard he worked to get here.
He'd gotten injured two years ago—a damaged knee that took far too long to heal, with months of frustrating physiotherapy.
It was months of pushing his body to the limit, of carefully measured, grueling late-night practices.
It took him months to trust his body again, to believe that he could win again.
Luckily, his girlfriend just so happened to be the most stubborn and optimistic person when it came to all matters concerning him.
Once his greatest cheerleader, now vying for his manager, apparently.
Yesoh's throat tightened as he took his place at the center of the ice, where he belonged and always would.
The god of ice in his domain. He glanced at the crowd, his eyes scanning briefly before locking on her.
A faint smile tucked at the corner of his lips, and for a moment, the rest of the arena seemed to disappear.
All at once, the music began. He was to perform to "Running Up That Hill" by Kate Bush, and it was no easy feat.
His first strides across the ice were deliberate, almost reverent, as though each step was a promise.
Slowly the music built up, and with it, his movements became more powerful, more fluid.
Photographers were working overtime, and the local news broadcasters were there as well.
Yesoh glanced around her and saw how nervous all of the other English people in the stands were, on the edge of their seats.
Yesoh couldn't help but smile to herself—how foolish they were.
She knew he was going to win, down to her marrow. It was what they did; they always won.
He flew into the next jump, spinning with breathtaking speed.
Yesoh couldn't help but worry for his knee and the pressure he was putting on it, but if he was anything, he was the strongest person she knew.
She knew that he could endure above all.
The entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
The girl's heart was in her throat when he landed cleanly, his blade slicing the ice in a perfect arc.
The second jump followed, and this time when his feet hit the ice, the crowd erupted in cheers so loud it felt like thunder beneath her feet.
Yesoh gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She felt tears in her eyes, but she didn't wipe them away. She couldn't look away, couldn't blink as he continued his perfect execution, weaving raw power and delicate artistry together as though he were painting something terrestrial on the ice.
By the time he reached his final spin, the music soaring into its crescendo, the crowd was on its feet.
Wynter ended in a low pose, one knee bent, arms outstretched, chest heaving as the last note hung in the air like the echo of a heartbeat.
The roar of the arena was instant—a tidal wave of applause.
She could see the relief on his face, knowing that all those months of pain were not in vain.
The score flashed on the screen moments later, but the noise of the crowd drowned out the announcer's voice. Wynter's name shot to the top of the leaderboard, and the word "GOLD" blazed next to it.
Yesoh barely had time to process the result before she saw him skating towards the edge of the rink, cameras and news broadcasters' lenses following him. His face was flushed, his chest still rising and falling with every labored breath, but his eyes searched the stands, and then he found her.
"Wynter—" she started, but before she could say anything more, he leapt over the barrier and swept her into his arms. She gasped as she felt her feet lift from the ground, his strong arms wrapping around her in the cage of his embrace.
She felt the chill of his costume as her eyes watered for him, for his victory.
All she could focus on was the way his heart pounded against her, the way he buried his face in her hair as though she was the prize herself.
"You… you did it."
"I may have crossed the finish line, Yesoh Yeo, but you have always been my starting point," he insisted, placing his hands on either side of her face with teary eyes. "This victory may be sweet, but not half as much as getting to come home to you."
"I'm so proud of you," she hiccupped, kissing his cheek. "My Wyn."
"Always your Wyn." He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world.
The crowd around them erupted in cheers again, this time for a different reason.
In that moment, it was just the two of them, as though the entire world had narrowed into that one perfect, infinite second.
When he finally pulled away, he grinned, boyish and radiant, the weight of the last two years lifting from his shoulders.
"I should probably go get my medal…" he teased. "You know, for the hundredth time."
"You think?" she replied, laughing through her tears as she gently pushed him back towards the rink.
He skated back to the ice, the cheers of the crowd swelling around him once more.
Yesoh watched him—she always watched him—with such pride and adoration.
The fear she'd carried for months melted away, replaced by the unshakable certainty that, despite the fact that the world had attempted to pull him under, to pull both of them under countless times without mercy, they had conquered the world through every challenge, every doubt, every barrier.
In that moment, she knew that Jiwon would be proud, that perhaps somewhere far away, she was always watching too.
This wasn't just his victory—it was their undoubtable triumph, a testament to everything they fought through together. And as the gold medal was placed around his neck, Wynter locked his gaze on her, knowing that he had struck gold in more ways than one.
New York, Yesoh's Birthday
Winter swept New York City like a storm the day Yesoh Yeo stumbled upon her 21st year.
The New York City skyline glimmered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Wynter's apartment, a warm glow casting across the open living room.
String lights hung from the ceiling beams, and the sweet scent of freshly baked cake filled the air.
Wynter stood near the kitchen island, checking his watch nervously as Cahya and Sydney finished the final touches on their masterpiece: a towering chocolate cake with elegant swirls of frosting and delicate sugar flowers.
Their last-minute, hours-of-watching-the-Food-Network masterpiece.
Soleh was supposed to participate, but he was neck-deep in exam season during his first year at MIT.
Computer science, just as he'd always dreamed of.
If one thing was certain, it was that the Yeo children had lived up to their name—they commanded the odds in their favor, didn't take any form of resistance or "no" for an answer.
Their dreams were never just dreams; they were checklists.
And Pat and Jurie couldn't have been any more proud.
"Careful, Cahya," Sydney teased as Yesoh's brother concentrated on piping intricate details on the cake. "You're making it too pretty to eat. You sure you don't practice in your spare time?"
"I'm a pianist. Being good with my hands is kind of the whole gig. You don't get to perform at Carnegie Hall by being clumsy," Cahya scoffed.
"Is there a particular reason you're talking to my fiancé about how good your fingers are, Cahya?" Jax scolded, and Sydney rolled her eyes.
"So possessive!" Sydney mused, glancing once more at the diamond on her ring finger that Jax had been saving up for since he was fifteen.
He'd always known Sydney St. James would be his wife; it was just a matter of working hard so he could someday afford that big heart, effortless charisma, and unwavering kindness. "I accept apologies in YSL boxes."
"Trust me, I know," Jax grumbled. "I just got you the new foundation they dropped last weekend."
"And I appreciate you so much, Jaxie," Syd smiled, kissing his cheek.
He blushed. He was smitten, always had been.
"You're the one who insisted we bake from scratch," Cahya replied, wiping flour off his cheek. "If this doesn't win Yesoh over, I'm blaming you."
Jax chuckled from his spot on the couch. "Sydney's never wrong when it comes to surprises, trust me. It's kind of her thing." He leaned over to steal a kiss, making Sydney roll her eyes in mock annoyance.