Chapter 26 Connor
CONNOR
“Don’t look down.”
The mountain air cuts colder out here, sharper than in the ice tunnel and hitting my skin like tiny little knives.
It hits the back of my throat like glass shards as we spill onto the ridge, the group funneling towards the modern-looking suspension bridge strung between two peaks over the largest cliff I’ve ever seen in my life.
They talked about it on the way here, and I half listened while Banks rattled off fun facts.
I was too focused on the way Manuela looked—her hair down around her shoulders and a mustard-color cardigan loosely draped on her body under her coat.
I should have been paying more attention to the words because now I’m paralyzed at the edge, unable to move one single step forward.
“Connor.” I vaguely hear my name being called from behind me, but I can’t turn to look. Her voice threads through the roar of wind, steady and low, and it’s the only thing keeping me from bolting back into the restaurant and parking my ass on a table far from here. “Connie.”
Every sway of the cables shudders through me like aftershocks. My stomach knots, hard and fast, and I have to lock my jaw to keep myself from showing my panic. George bounds first, stomping his boots on the slats, making them jump.
“See? Rock solid.”
He bounces once more for good measure, his laugh echoing across the gorge. Nicole and Hannah giggle behind him, both phones pulled out and recording his shenanigans. I should follow. I know I should, my brain knows it should. Easy—one foot, then the other. Pretend like it’s nothing.
I can’t.
“Hey.” Manuela’s voice again, closer. Her shoulder brushes mine as she eases in right next to me, her body slotting into the small space I’ve made by freezing up. “Eyes on me.”
I drag my gaze from the drop to her face.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her breath fogging soft in the air, strands of hair blowing in the breeze and tangling across her face. She doesn’t look impatient or even surprised. She looks steady and anchored right here next to me.
The breath that escapes me is shallow, harsh. “I can’t do it,” I say, the words dragged out like a confession.
And Manuela doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease me for being a panic-stricken man. “Then we don’t.”
The relief punches through me so fast I almost sag against her.
She loops her hand around my arm and backs us away from the bridge, angling her body between mine and the others, shielding me like it’s second nature.
We slip past a railing and toward a wooden bench tucked against the building where we just came from.
The crunch of our shoes fades under the whistle of the wind as the group drifts farther out over the gorge, completely unaware of what’s happening here on solid land.
I sink onto the bench, my palms slick with sweat as I drag them through my jeans.
My heart still thuds like it’s trying to break out of my chest, and my knees feel weak.
The feeling is so similar to that night I ended up in the emergency department…
And the worst part is how fast my body remembers.
How quickly the old panic slots back in, like it’s been waiting for an opening.
I told myself I’d change after that night. That I’d slow down, take care of myself, draw a line somewhere. That’s the reason behind the failed hobbies.
But nothing really changed—not the hours, not the expectations, not the way I keep pushing long past the point my body begs me to stop.
It’s not just the work, either. It’s how easily I disappear into whatever people want from me. The role. The image. The version of me that looks steady and untouchable even when I’m crumbling underneath it.
I’ve never admitted that out loud. Not to my parents. Not to my friends. Definitely not to the people at the office who still joke about how “unflappable” I am.
But right now, my hands won’t stop shaking, and for the first time, I wonder if they can see it.
Manuela sits next to me without hesitation, close enough that her knee knocks mine.
“I don’t know,” she says, eyes sweeping across the horizon where snow-dusted peaks stab through the clouds and green fields are visible down below. “Better view from here anyway.”
A shaky laugh works its way out of me. My breath fogs in front of us, breaking apart fast. “I guess I’m not built for dangling off cliffs.”
“You don’t have to be.” She turns her head, lips curved in the smallest smile. “I like this version better.”
That shouldn’t undo me. It’s not really much of a line. Maybe she’s just saying that she recognizes I’m a city boy through and through, but it slips under my ribs and lodges deep, making my heart thump harder.
I grip the bench with both hands, grounding myself in splinters and cold, the air so thin it feels sharp in my lungs.
I should probably joke back, maybe even relax my face and smooth all of this over with something easy and self-deprecating.
That’s who I am on the surface—smooth, unbothered, untouchable.
But all I manage is, “I hate not being in control.” The words come out raw, scraped from someplace I don’t usually let people see, except for maybe that nurse and my doorman.
She doesn’t look away. “That’s not a weakness.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, like she’s stating the color of the sky or the fact that we are at a very high altitude. Irrefutable. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”
I let out a humorless laugh, and she smiles softly in return. “Yeah? What scares you?”
“Not heights,” she says and bumps me with her shoulder. “I’m from a mountain town, so this is quite literally just a walk in the park. But water…”
Manuela’s smile twitches. She leans back against the bench, tilting her head toward the warm sun like she’s debating how much to admit to me. “Deep water. Like, lakes. And the ocean. For a long time, I hated swimming. I wouldn’t even get in a pool.”
I glance at her, surprised. She shrugs, head still tilted towards the sun, eyes closed. “But then I made myself go back. Little by little. Now I do it, but it’s not my favorite thing. And that’s okay.”
The cold air bites at my face, but her words sink warmly into me. I don’t know why it matters so much—that she gave me a piece of herself so easily and that she chose to share it now, or even share it at all.
Her hand rests casually on the bench between us, not quite touching mine.
Without thinking, I shift, brushing the back of my fingers against her knuckles.
She doesn’t pull again, but instead, her fingers turn just enough to hook into mine, not a full hold but enough to steady me more than the ground under my feet.
The bridge groans in the distance, the group’s voices echoing back across the gorge. Any second now, they’ll turn around, realize we’re not with them. This moment won’t last. A temporary pact that will be over the moment we step into an airplane and head back home.
And maybe that’s why the truth hits me so hard.
Sitting here—my scarf still around her neck, her fingers warm in my hand, her smile soft in a way she doesn’t show anyone else—-I know it’s already too late.
The bridge terrifies me. But this? This is what’s going to undo me.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Please,” she says with a rush of breath, like she’s been waiting for me to ask.
We fall into step, moving in the opposite direction of the others. The wind howls over the ridge, but the farther we get, the lighter my chest feels. At the gondola platform, the line of cars swings in a lazy rhythm, empty except for one that glides in with the doors yawning open.
Manuela pulls her phone from her pocket, thumbs flying quickly over the screen. “Texting Camila,” she says before I can ask. “So she doesn’t think we fell off a cliff.”
I huff a laugh, more relieved than I should be, and step into the gondola after her. The doors hiss shut, sealing us into a glass bubble that rocks as the cables catch. Then we’re moving, the mountain falling away beneath us, the whole valley stretching wide and endless below.
For the first time all day, it’s just us. No noise or audience or the chance for eyes to be on us. Just Manuela pressed into the bench across from me. Her eyes lift to mine, and the silence crackles.
I cross the small space in one leap and drop into the seat beside her. She doesn’t flinch and watches me with that steady, unblinking gaze that knocks me flat.
“You’re impossible,” I murmur, my hand finding her jaw, thumb grazing the warmth of her skin.
“Look who’s talking,” she whispers, and then she’s kissing me.
Not cautious, not hidden like in the ice tunnel. This is open, full, the kind of kiss that swallows the air from my lungs and makes the world tilt. Her hands fist in my coat, dragging me closer until I can taste her laughter against my tongue.
The gondola sways, weightless, and for once, I don’t care.
Because if falling feels like this—like her—then maybe I never want to stop.