Chapter 20 #2
Mark’s expression softened in a way I didn’t see often. “That sounds like him.” Then he glanced toward the mixed zone entrance where media staff were already gathering athletes for post-event interviews. “You want me to pull you from press?”
A small part of me yearned to say yes. I wanted silence. A locked door. Distance from cameras and questions and expectations.
But another part of me, the one built from years of competition and responsibility and finishing what needed finishing, reacted first.
“No. No, I’m doing it.”
Mark studied me. “Dean—”
“I’m fine.” Even I heard how thin that sounded.
Ethan winced beside me.
Mark didn’t call me on it. “You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
“I know.” I dragged in a breath that refused to settle. “But if I don’t go out there now, everyone’s gonna know something’s wrong.” And I couldn’t deal with that.
Not yet.
Mark held my gaze another second before nodding. “Okay. Then we get through press fast, and after that you go back to the Village and shut your brain off for a few hours.”
Yeah, a great idea that sounded impossible right then.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket, trying to pull myself together before the cameras got anywhere near me. I looked up.
Luka stood several yards away near the entrance leading back toward the athlete areas, still wearing his Velkaran team jacket, accreditation resting against his chest. Mila and Sokolov were beside him speaking to an official, but Luka wasn’t listening.
His eyes were locked on me.
And suddenly the corridor felt too bright, too exposed.
“He heard,” Ethan murmured beside me.
I swallowed hard. “What?”
“What you told Mark.” Ethan’s voice stayed low. “Maybe not all of it, but enough.”
My chest tightened.
Across the corridor, he still hadn’t moved. Even from this distance, I could see the alarm in his face.
I wanted to go to him so badly it hurt. For one irrational second, all I wanted was to cross the corridor, grab hold of him, and bury my face against his shoulder until the panic stopped clawing through me.
Instead, we stayed exactly where we were, separated by officials and athletes and cameras and the reality of what this place demanded from both of us.
Luka’s fingers flexed once at his sides, the smallest movement, but I knew what it meant.
He wanted to come closer. I wanted him to.
God, I wanted him to.
But Sokolov was right there. Media staff crowded the corridor. Olympic volunteers streamed endlessly between us.
Wrong place, wrong moment.
Luka seemed to realize it the same time I did. I saw the control slide back into place across his expression, the visible effort it cost him twisting somewhere deep inside me.
Then he tipped his head, not toward the media area, but the exit.
Toward the Village.
The message landed in a heartbeat.
Later.
It wasn’t enough.
Right now, it was going to have to be.
Luka
During the bus ride back to the Village, I kept seeing Dean’s face in the corridor.
The color gone from it. The way he had gripped the railing. The look in his eyes when he ended the call.
By the time I reached the residential building, my pulse was so high it felt like another competition warm-up. I barely remembered crossing the lobby. I knew Mila had spoken before we separated for the elevators, something gentle and cautionary, but the words hadn’t stayed with me.
The hallway outside his room was quiet when I reached it. His door opened almost immediately, and he stood there in sweatpants and a Team USA shirt, damp hair curling at the brow.
He looks exhausted.
I forgot every careful thing I’d planned to say.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet.
That was all it took.
I stepped inside the room the second he moved aside, and the moment the door shut behind me, I turned toward him.
“How is he?”
The question came out rougher than I intended.
Dean blinked. “He’s stable. They think it was caught early. They’re running more tests tomorrow.”
I shuddered out a breath, his gaze on me.
Dean watched me. “Luka—”
“No.” I shook my head, the movement sharp. “You looked…” I stopped, trying to steady my breathing. “Kvrat…. Dean, you frightened me.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Do not apologize.”
“I’m trying really hard not to lose my shit right now.” His voice came out choked.
I crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed before I could think too hard about it. For a second, I simply looked at him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion around his eyes.
Then I lifted a hand toward him. “Come here.”
Dean stared at me for a heartbeat longer, and then he crossed the room in three strides. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me, and I barely had time to turn before he folded toward me, as if his body had already decided where it needed to be.
I wrapped my arms around him without hesitation, and he clung to me. Hard.
His forehead pressed against my shoulder, one arm locked tightly around my waist while the other braced against my back, fingers gripping fabric as though he was afraid to let go.
Dean’s breathing roughened against my shoulder. Somewhere inside the walls, the heating pipes hummed softly.
I rested my cheek against his hair. “It’s all right,” I murmured.
“No, it’s not.” His voice sounded rough and frayed against my shoulder.
I closed my eyes. “No,” I admitted. “But he is alive. He is being cared for. And you are not alone here.” I tucked my fingers under his chin and tilted his face toward mine. “Som pri tebe.”
Dean exhaled against me. “I hate this. I hate being this far away.”
“I know.”
“If something happened and I wasn’t there—”
I pulled back far enough to look at him. “Listen to me.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“You spoke to your mother. Your father is stable. They are taking this seriously.” I kept my voice calm, steady, the way he had done for me so many times already. “And if he knew you were falling apart here instead of focusing on your competition, he would be furious.”
A startled breath of laughter escaped him despite everything. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That sounds like him.”
I brushed my hand slowly over the back of his neck, grounding him the only way I knew how.
“You do not have to carry all of this alone.”
Dean looked at me for a long second, his expression softer now, more exposed than I had ever seen it. “You know, for somebody who claims English isn’t enough sometimes, you say exactly the right thing a lot.”
Heat crept into my face. “That is because you are currently emotionally compromised and easier to impress.”
That earned me a laugh, small and tired, but real.
I cupped his cheek. “Opri sa o mňa.”
And when Dean leaned forward again, resting his forehead against mine, I understood with sudden, painful clarity.
He trusted me to hold the weight for a while.
Opri sa o mňa.
I closed my eyes.