grey !

Somewhere between the opening ceremony and the last medal ceremony, between the distance and the argument and the quiet hurt neither of you knew how to say out loud at first, something cracked open and forced both of you to look at your relationship more honestly than you ever had before. Alysa had always loved you in that intense, slightly stubborn way she loved everything important—deeply, seriously but privately. She assumed you knew. She assumed the way she showed up for you in small ways was obvious enough. The Olympics were the first time she realized that love doesn’t count for much if the other person can’t see it. She realized you shouldn’t have to guess how important you are to someone; that she couldn’t keep waiting for you to make the first move in public, couldn’t keep acting like your relationship was something that only existed when no one else was looking. And you learned that pulling away when you were hurt didn’t protect you the way you thought it did—it just made both of you lonely at the same time. So, you talked, probably more honestly than either of you ever had, and when you came out the other side of that, something between you felt steadier. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't magically become easy, but you two were finally on the same page.

After the Olympics, when everything slowed down and the world stopped watching quite so closely, you both disappeared a little. Not entirely because you still had the mandatory press tour, still showed up to events when you had to, still smiled on red carpets and answered questions and even went to the Met Gala together that year like the world expected you to. But most of your time was spent at home, off the grid, just being normal with each other for once. Alysa started talking more at night when you were both half asleep, the kind of honest conversations that only happen in the dark when no one is performing for anyone else. She got better at saying what she felt instead of assuming you already knew. And in public, she stopped waiting. If she wanted to hold your hand, she just reached for it, if she wanted to touch your back, she did. If she wanted to kiss you goodbye, she didn’t check who was looking first. It wasn’t performative, it was just her finally understanding that loving you wasn’t something she needed to hide so carefully.

Since the Olympics, neither of you had felt lost in the relationship and neither of you spiraled wondering where you stood. You both knew.

Then Novemebr came, and with it, competition season again.

November in Nevada feels wrong.

Alysa notices that first thing in the morning when she wakes up in the hotel room and stares at the ceiling for a second too long before reaching for her phone. The air is dry in that way desert air always is, the sunlight too clean through the curtains, everything outside too beige and still compared to the places both of you usually end up this time of year. It isn’t bad exactly. It just feels off today.

That’s the word that follows her around all morning. Off.

It starts as one of those vague feelings she’d normally ignore. Alysa is used to nerves. Used to waking up with adrenaline already humming somewhere under her skin before competition days, used to the particular strangeness of hotel rooms and weird sleep and training schedules and too many people talking at her before she’s fully awake. But this doesn’t feel like skating nerves.

Warm-up goes fine. Better than fine, actually. Her body listens. Her jumps are there. Timing feels good. Nothing is fighting her. So technically, she has no reason to feel weird. And yet?

She’s sitting on the side of the rink after practice, jacket half-zipped, texting you while a coach says something to someone behind her that she doesn’t even process, and the feeling creeps back in again. Not sharp exactly but persistent, like a thread tugging somewhere low in her ribs.

You’re in Colorado for the U.S. Grand Prix. Big air and Slopestyle. She’s in Nevada for the ISU Grand Prix. Entirely different worlds, same day, same stupid sport schedules that have made long distance into something neither of you even question anymore. You’d both texted this morning the usual. Good luck. Don’t fall. Eat something.

Alysa stares at your last message for a second before typing something back.

Alysa:

i think u should retire after this szn lol

She only adds the lol because otherwise it sounds too much like what it is: serious. And she already knows how you get about this topic. You hate when she gets too visibly worried about snowboarding, and you hate even more when she sounds like she’s trying to police it. You say it makes you feel like she doesn’t trust you. Alysa always says that’s not the point. You always say then stop acting like it is.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

You:

whyyyyy

Alysa presses her lips together and types back with one thumb.

Alysa:

idk i hate that ur always in danger

This time the response takes a second longer.

You:

do u not trust me that im the goat

Alysa:

not that i just worry abt u

You:

dw abt me im a tough guy

Alysa’s face goes flat in that way it always does when you say something so ridiculous with complete confidence.

Alysa:

ur not a guy

You:

dont tell me who to be

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s already typing back—something sarcastic, ok tough guy—when someone calls her name sharply enough to drag her back into the room.

“Alysa.” She looks up. One of the staff is gesturing at the rink. It’s time. Her phone screen goes dark in her hand. She slides it into her jacket pocket and stands. The weird feeling doesn’t leave. It just gets shoved down under muscle memory and competition routine, under the part of her life that has always known how to take up too much space and force everything else out for a little while.

A few hours pass. Her event goes well like really well. Clean enough that everyone around her is pleased, coaches calmer, the post-skate blur moving in that familiar wave of press and congratulations and quick comments from the press. Alysa nods through it all, answers what she has to answer, changes out of skates, gets halfway back to herself physically.

But the off feeling is still there. Which is what bothers her. If it had been about her skating, it should’ve gone away by now. Instead, by the time she’s in the locker room, jacket back on, hair slightly flattened at the crown from costume changes and adrenaline settling out of her bloodstream, the weird pull in her chest feels stronger. Not enough to name but enough to make her uneasy.

The TV mounted in the corner of the locker room is off when she walks in. She stops and looks around for a worker. “Can someone turn that on?” she asks, already shrugging out of one sleeve of her jacket before stopping halfway. “I need the snowboarding stream.”

Something in her tone must make it clear she’s not asking lightly, because a minute later the TV flickers to life with the slopestyle broadcast. Colorado fills the screen—bright snow, mountain shadows, announcer voices with that too-lively sports cadence.

Alysa stands there with her arms crossed and her thumb hooked against her lower lip, half biting at the nail without realizing she’s doing it. You’re not up yet.

Amber notices her first. Of course she does. She comes in mid-conversation with someone else, takes one look at Alysa standing there like her entire soul is apparently tethered to the TV, and just smiles. “Oh my god,” Amber says under her breath. “You’re in deep.” Alysa barely reacts. Amber steps closer, leaning in enough to catch the broadcast too. “She’s like a professional, you know.”

Alysa waves one hand at her without looking away. Not even dismissive so much as absent. Like please go away, I’m busy.

That gets a laugh out of Isabeau when she walks over a second later. “How many times have you seen her do this and she’s fine?”

Alysa still doesn’t turn. “Doesn’t matter. Just want her to be okay.”

Amber’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. She admitted she has feelings!”

“I’ve never denied it.”

“No,” Amber says. “But you used to act like you were too cool to have emotions.”

Alysa finally glances at her for half a second, expression blank. “Shhh.”

Alysa tunes the conversation around her out again almost instantly. She can feel both skaters still standing near her now, can hear the low amusement in their breathing, but they become part of the room’s background noise the second the broadcast shifts.

“Up next,” one of the commentators says, brightening audibly, “the reigning Olympic gold and silver medalist from earlier this year in February. She’s back here in Colorado defending a second-place finish from last season, and expectations are, understandably, very high.”

Your name appears on screen as Alysa goes perfectly still.

The camera cuts to you at the start area, board clipped in, shoulders bundled up against the cold. It zooms in enough that Alysa can see the small details she always notices first—the way you mess with the board strap when you’re waiting too long, the slight press of your lips together when you’re thinking, the expression you get when you’re annoyed but trying not to let it show too obviously.

And right now? Your face is scrunched. You bend down, fiddle with your binding or strap or something near your front foot. Then you say something to your coach. Even without sound, Alysa can tell from your mouth and the way your brows lift that it’s a complaint, or at least a concern. Your coach kneels immediately and starts messing with the same spot.

Alysa narrows her eyes and the feeling in Alysa’s chest sharpens.

Amber notices the change in Alysa’s posture. “What?”

Alysa doesn’t answer right away. “Something's wrong.”

Isabeau looks at the screen. “What is?”

“She’s worried about something.”

On screen, your coach finishes adjusting whatever it was, pats the board once, and stands. You get up too, test the weight of it, rock once, then settle.

The announcer is still talking about your Olympic results, about style and consistency and how you’ve become one of the women to watch in the discipline. Alysa barely hears any of it now. Her whole body is tuned to the image of you on the screen.

Then you drop.

The first section goes clean. You ride the rail with the kind of confidence Alysa has seen so many times it should maybe stop making her nervous and somehow never does. Body low and balanced, easy in that infuriating way top athletes can make dangerous things look almost casual. You come off the feature clean and head into the first smaller jump. You land it perfectly.

Alysa exhales once, not relief yet but getting there.

The broadcast follows you down the course, camera wide enough to keep your whole line in frame. You’re moving well, you're fluid, fast. By the time you set for the final jump, one of the announcers is already talking about how strong the run is shaping up to be, how this could put you in a really good place if you land.

Alysa’s stomach drops before anything even happens. It's a pulse of dread so sharp it makes her fingers curl into her sleeves.

Then...the takeoff. And immediately it's wrong.

Your body leaves the lip and Alysa knows before the spin fully sets. The timing is off by a fraction and somehow that fraction changes everything. Your hand goes for the board and misses. Or finds it too late. There isn’t enough air under you, not enough control, and suddenly the thing Alysa hates more than anything in this sport happens... your arms start flailing, signifying loss of control.

The second she sees your arms break wild like that, something in her body gives way.

It happens in almost unbearable slow motion after that.

You come down wrong—too far forward, too little control, body pitched in a way that is all panic and physics and no recovery. The board clips. Your upper body whips. Then your head and shoulder slam into the snow first with a sickening kind of force that seems to travel straight through the TV. Your helmet flies off. Actually flies off.

Alysa’s heart doesn’t just drop—it feels like it disappears altogether.

Your body ragdolls down the rest of the landing, limbs loose in that horrible, unnatural way that tells everyone watching you were no longer in control of what happened almost immediately.

Amber gasps and covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Isabeau’s head snaps toward Alysa instantly, concern already all over her face before Alysa even realizes she’s reacting. Alysa doesn’t move. She can’t. For one impossible second it feels like her entire body has been nailed to the floor. Cold all over. Nausea so immediate and violent it makes her throat tighten. Her vision goes weird at the edges, not blurry exactly but it's too sharp in the center and not enough anywhere else.

On the TV, the broadcast zooms out, then back in, then out again like the camera operators themselves don’t know how close is too close for something this bad. You try to sit up. Alysa sees it, sees the motion, desperate and instinctive, and then sees you collapse back flat again. There’s red on your face now.

Alysa feels like she’s actually going to throw up.

One of the announcers is still talking, voice lower now, stripped of the usual performative excitement. “That is a very, very hard fall. You can see immediately the concern here—especially with the helmet coming off. That is not something you ever want to see.”

Medics are already on you, running, sliding into frame. One drops to a knee at your side, another signals farther up the course. You move again—trying to sit up, maybe just reacting—and a medic immediately presses a hand toward your shoulder, guiding you back down.

The announcer keeps going, carefully now, “Her day is definitely over. Such a sad way to get this event started. Hopefully she’ll be alright.” Your board is somewhere behind the medics. The snow around the impact zone is scuffed and ugly. Your helmet is farther away than Alysa can stand to look at.

It doesn’t feel real. Not in the normal way bad things don’t feel real at first. In the specific way that Alysa’s brain rejects the image because it has already spent all day trying to tell her something was wrong and now that something is wrong, it’s too much. Too exact. Too cruel.

This is it. This is the shape of every worry she’s ever had about your sport, every stupid argument, every time she texted be careful and tried to make it sound like a joke because she didn’t want you rolling your eyes at her. This. The image of you hitting hard enough that your helmet came off.

She can hear her own pulse in her ears now. Fast and ugly and wrong. Her jaw hurts, her shoulders hurt. Everything in her body is braced so hard it’s almost painful but she can’t look away. And for a few endless seconds, that is the worst feeling she has ever known.

------

The two-hour flight to Colorado is the longest two hours Alysa has ever lived through.

She doesn’t remember packing her bag. She doesn’t remember the drive to the airport and she barely remembers boarding the plane. The last clear image in her head before everything turned into motion and noise and fluorescent lights was the TV in the locker room and your body hitting the snow and the helmet flying off and the red on your face.

That image won’t leave. It loops behind her eyes the entire flight.

She sits by the window but doesn’t look out of it once. Her phone is in her hands the entire time, screen lighting up every few minutes with messages she barely reads. She opens the messages, closes them, opens your contact, closes it again because there’s nothing to text. She doesn’t even know if you have your phone. She doesn’t know if you’re awake. She doesn’t know if you’re in surgery. She doesn’t know anything except what she saw.

Head first. Helmet off. Blood. Airlift.

She had snapped out of that frozen trance in the locker room the moment she saw the helicopter arrive on the broadcast and watched them lift you onto the stretcher. Something in her brain had switched from watching to moving. She grabbed her bag, called her manager, said she needed the next flight to Colorado, didn’t care about logistics or cost or schedule. Now she’s sitting on the plane and the movement is the worst part because she can’t do anything.

She just sits there with her hands locked together so tight her knuckles ache, elbows on her knees, head bowed slightly like she’s praying even though she’s never really been the praying type. Her brain is running through every possible version of what could be happening to you right now.

She knows crashes. She’s seen crashes. She’s watched enough snowboarding and skiing over the years to know what bad looks like and what really bad looks like. The crash could have been worse, she tells herself. She’s seen worse. She’s seen people not move at all. She’s seen people get stretchered out unconscious. She’s seen limbs bend in ways they shouldn’t. But you moved, you tried to sit up. That has to mean something. Then another memory slips in—some skier she’d read about years ago. Hit her head, stood up, talked to people. Then collapsed minutes later from internal bleeding.

Alysa’s stomach twists so hard she presses her fist against it.

No, this isn’t that. It can’t be that.

You’re tough. You’ve crashed before. You’ve gotten up laughing with blood on your lip and snow in your hair and told her you were fine while she yelled at you for scaring her. You’ve broken things before and walked it off like it was an inconvenience instead of an injury. You’re okay. You have to be okay. She repeats that in her head like it’s a fact she can force into existence if she thinks it enough times.

The plane hums quietly around her, people sleeping, people watching movies, flight attendants moving up and down the aisle like this is a normal day and a normal flight and nothing important is happening at all. But for Alysa, the world has narrowed down to one thing: Getting to you.

And until she sees you with her own eyes, she will sit here in this quiet, aching, suspended space between not knowing and knowing, between fear and relief, and she will wait. This is what loving you has always meant, even before she realized it. It's not just medals and jokes and lazy kisses and inside jokes with nights on the couch. It also means sitting in fear, holding her breath, refusing to look away from the possibility of losing you. It's her choosing you over everything else without even thinking about it.

This flight isn’t travel. It’s a vigil. And she will sit here, hands clasped, heart in her throat, and keep awake until she gets to you.

------

When the plane lands, she’s off before most people have even unbuckled their seatbelts. She orders an Uber from the curb and spends the entire drive staring out the window without actually seeing anything. Then the hospital lobby smells like antiseptic and coffee and too many people waiting for too many different reasons.

Alysa walks straight to the front desk. “I’m here for—” she says your full name, voice tight. “What room is she in?”

The woman at the desk types something, then looks up. “Are you family?”

Alysa doesn’t hesitate. “I’m her girlfriend.”

The woman softly says, “We’re only allowing two visitors at a time right now, and there are already two people with her. You’re going to have to wait.”

Wait. The word hits Alysa like a physical object. She has been waiting for hours already. Waiting on a plane. Waiting in a car. Waiting without knowing if you were conscious or breathing or in surgery or—

“I can’t wait,” Alysa says, voice dropping. Not angry or loud, just so desperate. “Please. Can you tell whoever’s up there that I need to see her? Do you know who’s up there so I can tell them myself?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out names.”

Alysa leans forward slightly, both hands flat on the counter now. “Please,” she says again, and she is actually begging now, voice shaking just slightly. “I need to get to her.”

The woman studies her for a second, clearly feeling bad but also clearly stuck in hospital protocol. Then she lowers her voice slightly. “Off the record,” she says quietly, “one of them seemed like a coach.”

Alysa nods immediately, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her hands are shaking so badly she almost drops it. She calls your coach.

A few minutes later, she sees two people walk into the lobby—your head coach and his assistant coach. The assistant coach gives her a small, sympathetic smile and sits down in one of the waiting chairs. Your head coach walks straight over to Alysa. “Come on,” he says gently.

They walk toward the elevators together, and Alysa starts talking immediately. “What happened? Is she awake? Did she hit her head really bad? I watched they airlifted her—was she unconscious? Did she—” She’s firing questions so fast she barely breathes between them.

He lets her talk for a few seconds, probably because he knows she needs to get it out. Then he presses the elevator button and finally says, “Alysa. She’s okay.”

The words hit her so hard she almost doesn’t understand them at first.

“She’s very lucky,” he continues. “Grade two concussion. Broken nose. A lot of bruising along her back and ribs. But no spinal injury, no internal bleeding, no skull fracture. They’re keeping her overnight for monitoring because of the concussion, but she’s going to be okay.”

Alysa feels like someone just let her breathe again after she’d been underwater for hours. Her chest actually hurts with how hard the relief hits.

She nods once, but she can’t speak for a second. Her throat is too tight. Her eyes burn suddenly and she blinks hard, looking down at the floor of the elevator like she needs to get control of herself before she walks into your room.

The doors open and he leads her down a quiet hallway, then stops at a door and pushes it open gently. You’re sitting up in the hospital bed. That’s the first thing Alysa registers. You’re upright and awake. Not hooked up to a million machines, just sitting there in one of those hospital gowns with a blanket over your lap, shoulders slightly hunched like you’re uncomfortable. There’s a metal splint across your nose, taped in place, and the bruising is already starting under your eyes—dark and spreading, the beginning of two black eyes that will probably look awful in a few days.

You look miserable. But you’re alive. Alysa’s heart physically aches at the sight of you.

She doesn’t say anything when she walks in. She just closes the distance immediately and grabs your hand like she needs to confirm you’re actually real and not something she imagined.

You smile at her, slow and a little lopsided, eyes half-lidded and heavy from the concussion. You squeeze her fingers weakly. “Told you I’m tough,” you mumble.

Alysa lets out a short laugh, but it’s not really laughter. It’s relief and disbelief and leftover fear all tangled together. “You’re insane,” she says quietly. “I was so worried.”

You nod slightly. “I was a little scared too,” you admit. “But I’m okay. Or that’s what they’re telling me.” You look at her for a second, then say, very softly, “Can I please kiss you?”

Alysa’s heart does something painful again in her chest. She wants to kiss you so badly it almost hurts. But the splint on your nose, the bruising, the way you’re clearly in pain even sitting still—it makes her hesitate. She doesn’t want to accidentally bump your nose or hurt you more.

You see the hesitation immediately. “Please,” you say again, voice quiet but stubborn. Then you add, “I heard you aced your program. I wish I could watch it but they took away screens from me.” You pause, then look at her with a small, tired smile. “But I don’t need to watch a replay to know you looked pretty and landed all your jumps perfectly. Unlike—” You trail off and look away.

And Alysa’s heart actually breaks all over again in that moment. She knows that look, that quiet frustration. The part of you that isn’t just hurt physically, but hurt that you didn’t land the run, that you didn’t get to finish, that you crashed in front of everyone. Your ego is bruised too, and she can see it all over your face even through the swelling and the exhaustion.

She can’t let you feel rejected on top of everything else.

So she sighs softly and leans in very carefully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw gently so she can control the angle, and she kisses you as carefully as she can. You kiss her back immediately, eager and a little clumsy because you’re trying not to move your face too much. But when your nose brushes her cheek, you wince sharply and Alysa pulls back right away.

“Okay, no,” she says softly. “We’re not doing that right now.”

“I’ll get over it,” you mumble. “We should try again.”

She shakes her head and sits down carefully on the edge of the bed instead, still holding your hand. “You’re concussed and your nose is broken,” she says. “You’re not doing anything.” You sigh dramatically and lean your head back against the pillows.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Alysa just sits there with your hand in hers, thumb rubbing slowly over your knuckles like she needs to keep reminding herself you’re actually here. She looks at the bruises under your eyes. The tape across your nose. The way you’re moving slightly slower than usual. And she thinks about the crash again, the way your body hit the snow, the helicopter, the blood. Her stomach twists again.

“I hate your sport,” she says quietly.

You open one eye and look at her. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

You look at her for a long moment, really look at her, like you’re seeing how shaken she still is even though she’s trying to act calm now. “Come here,” you mumble.

She leans closer and you rest your head carefully against her shoulder, avoiding your nose. For the first time since the crash, Alysa finally feels like her heart is beating normally again. She’s still scared. Still angry at the mountain and the snow and the jump and the physics and everything that could have taken you away from her in a single bad rotation.

But you’re here.

-------

Alysa leaves the hospital feeling like she’s been peeled open. There’s nothing neat about it. It feels messy like the last several hours scraped something raw inside her and even though you’re okay—even though she saw you, touched you, held your hand, heard your stupid voice making stupid jokes with a splint on your nose—her body still hasn’t caught up to that fact.

It does not want to let go of you.

When visiting hours end and your nurse comes in with that apologetic, practiced tone hospitals use when they have to interrupt people in the middle of relief, Alysa’s first instinct is to ignore her. Her second instinct is to say no. Her third is to bargain. She manages none of those, because you get there first.

“You have to go,” you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion and the concussion and whatever pain medication they’ve given you. “You have a final.”

Alysa’s hand tightens around yours immediately. “I don’t care.”

You blink at her slowly, that half-lidded look on your face somehow both pathetic and still annoyingly smug. “You do.”

“I literally don’t.”

“You will when you’re not sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable.”

Alysa narrows her eyes, but there’s no force in it. Not with you looking like that. “You’re concussed and still talking too much.”

“And you still have to go.”

Your coaches agree with you, obviously. So do hers, over the phone, in that infuriatingly reasonable way adults in sports always do when they’re trying to make logistics sound more important than love. The final is tomorrow. She can still make it back. She should still make it back. You’ll be discharged soon anyway and flying home to California with your own people. The best thing she can do right now, apparently, is leave.

Alysa hates every second of it. She hates standing up from the chair by your bed. Hates pulling her hand out of yours. Hates the way you try to smile at her like you’re the one comforting her.

“Go win,” you say quietly.

She leans down and presses the gentlest kiss she can manage to your forehead because it’s the only place she can do it without risking your nose. “You’re the worst,” she mutters.

Your mouth twitches. “Oh, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smile properly at that—tired, bruised, eyes heavy, but still you. And that’s the image Alysa has to carry with her all the way back to the airport, all the way onto another plane, all the way back into the bubble of competition like she didn’t just spend the day thinking she might lose you.

By the time she gets back, she feels hollowed out.

The arena the next morning is too bright. Too normal. Coaches and skaters and staff moving around like the world didn’t tilt violently off-axis yesterday. Alysa goes through the motions because she knows how to. Her body is so trained for this that it will keep performing routines even when the rest of her is somewhere else entirely.

People know, of course they do. Not every detail, but they heard or saw the crash. And there's the not-so-rumor that she disappeared across state lines for a few hours and came back overnight. A couple of people ask gently how you are. Alysa answers them. That, all by itself, feels new.

Before, she would’ve gone closed-off instantly. A short “she’s okay” and then silence sharp enough to end the conversation. Not because she didn’t care. Because she cared too much, and letting people see the shape of it always felt like exposure. Like weakness or giving away something private. Now she doesn’t have the energy for that kind of self-protection. Or maybe she just doesn’t believe in it the same way anymore.

So when people ask, she actually answers. “She’s okay,” Alysa tells one of the coaches passing by. “Concussion. Broken nose. Bruised up pretty bad, but okay. They kept her overnight, but she should be flying home now." And every time she says it out loud, it makes it a little more real in a good way. Home. Safe. Not still lying in that snow. Not frozen forever in the image her mind keeps trying to replay.

Still, the pressure under her ribs doesn’t lift all the way.

She’s in the locker room tying her skates when Amber sits down beside her. No jokes first. No teasing. It's that calm, open presence Amber slips into when she knows someone is hanging on by more threads than they’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Amber says quietly.

Alysa keeps her eyes on the laces for a second too long. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” The question sits there. It's so simple, so genuine. Amber leans her elbows on her knees, looking at Alysa without forcing eye contact. “That was really scary,” she says. “And I know you traveled all night so you must be exhausted.” A beat. “It’s okay if you’re not totally okay.”

It's like whenever someone asks if you're okay, it snaps any ounce of self-restraint all at once. There’s no sudden sob, no full collapse. It’s more like the thing holding her together quietly gives way. Her hands stop on the laces. Her shoulders cave in a little. Then she turns, almost blindly, and lets herself fold into Amber. Amber catches her immediately. Firm arms. One around her shoulders, one hand at the back of her head for a second before moving down to rub her back, there's no surprise like she expected this.

Alysa cries quietly. She doesn't make a noise, really, as tears slide down her face while she tries to breathe through the pressure in her lungs and can’t quite get a full breath for a few seconds. Her face is tucked against Amber’s shoulder, one hand twisted in the fabric of her own warm-up jacket, trying to get enough control over herself not to shake apart entirely.

Amber doesn’t rush her, doesn’t say it’s okay in that empty way people sometimes do when they’re uncomfortable with someone else’s fear. She just holds on and keeps rubbing Alysa’s back in slow circles like she knows Alysa needs steadiness more than reassurance right now.

When Alysa finally pulls back a little, it’s only enough to wipe at her face with the heel of her hand. Her skin feels hot and awful, her nose burns. Her chest still hurts with the memory of the panic. “I was so scared, Amber,” she says, voice rough and embarrassingly thin. “I’ve never felt that sick in my life.”

Amber nods once, eyes soft but not pitying. “I know.”

Alysa swallows hard. “I was waiting for some headline to announce she didn’t make it before I got there.” Her mouth twists. “Like I kept thinking my phone was gonna light up and it was gonna be… I don’t know.” She shakes her head because she can’t even finish that sentence without feeling like she’ll throw up again. “It felt like torture.”

Amber keeps listening, lets the words come.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Alysa says. “I was just sitting there on that plane and all I knew was what I saw on TV and it was just her hitting the snow over and over again in my head and I—” She stops to catch her breath, presses her lips together hard enough to steady them. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

There it is. The thing that used to stay buried inside other sentences, under jokes, under coolness. Under Alysa pretending not to be the kind of person who needs someone that badly.

Amber’s expression doesn’t change much, but her hand presses once, firmly, between Alysa’s shoulder blades. “You won’t ever have to find out,” she certain. “She wouldn’t leave you like that. She’s a fighter, and she’s tough, okay? She’s okay.” Then, more gently, “She’ll be waiting for you after this. At home. And then you’ll be there taking care of her.”

The picture of that lands softly in Alysa’s heart. It doesn't completely erase the fear. Alysa nods slowly, sniffles once, annoyed at herself. Wipes the rest of her face and exhales like she’s trying to clear the last of it out of her body.

Amber squeezes her once more—quick, solid, no lingering weirdness—then leans back enough to look at her properly. “Want me to stay?”

Alysa shakes her head. “No. It’s okay.” Her voice is still scratchy but more stable now. “I’m done.”

Amber lifts one eyebrow like she doesn’t believe that for a second, but lets it go. “Okay.” They stand. The rhythm of competition starts to gather around them again—coaches moving, names being called, the low scrape of blades somewhere beyond the room.

Then Alysa’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out automatically, expecting maybe one of your coaches updating her with something else. Instead she sees your name and her heart jumps into her throat.

You:

Hey, Alysa. Good luck today on your final.

Alysa stares at the screen, eyes narrowing at the formality of your text. But before Alysa can respond, another text comes through.

You:

This is her coach typing for her, she can’t look at her phone.

Alysa’s mouth finally lifts. Of course. Of course you’re concussed, probably squinting at light, probably under strict instructions not to be on screens, and you still found a way to make sure she got a message before her final. Of course you made your coach type for you like some absurd little dictator of affection still thinking about her. Something warm and painful moves through her all at once.

She types back more slowly than usual.

Alysa:

tell her thank u and i love her

A new bubble appears almost immediately but disappears for a minute, only for a voice memo to appear. She clicks play and the sound of your raspy voice comes through the speaker.

He won't say this for me, I don't know why. But I think you're so hot and I'm so in love with you. And I really miss you so I can't wait to see you again. I also can't wait to get my phone back and watch how hot you look in that little red-- it cuts off and Alysa's sure it was your coach who took away the little screen time you had for abusing your privileges.

Amber groans. “You’re both embarrassing.”

Alysa can feel something in her chest settling now. The fear isn't gone, maybe it won’t be for a while. Maybe every time you drop into something dangerous from now on, a part of her body will remember that crash before anything else. But right now, you’re home and you're still you, waiting for her.

So Alysa draws in one deep breath, squares her shoulders, and starts toward the rink because she still has to skate.

------

The bronze medal feels heavier than Alysa expects. Not physically—the medal itself is lighter than gold, obviously, smaller—but everything attached to it feels heavy. The last 24 hours, the flights, the hospital, the fear that still hasn’t fully left her body, the program she skated on almost no sleep, running on adrenaline and dread and the image of you sitting in that hospital bed with a splint on your nose telling her she still had to compete.

Her skate wasn’t bad but it wasn’t her best either. She felt it the moment she stepped onto the ice. That slight lag between thought and movement. The triple Axel that she usually snaps into clean and confident felt hesitant on takeoff. She landed it, but she knew it wasn’t sharp. The rest of the program she fought for—not elegantly, not effortlessly like the day before—but stubbornly, the way you snowboard. Like she was finishing it out of principle more than joy.

Still, the score from the previous day carried her. When the final placements came in and she landed in third, she didn’t feel disappointed so much as relieved it was over. But landing podium also means more days. More photos, more press, more gala rehearsals, more smiling when all she really wants to do is get on a plane and go sit next to you on a couch and make sure you’re actually still okay and not just pretending to be.

The medal ceremony feels like it happens to someone else. She stands on the third step, medal around her neck, smiling when she’s supposed to smile, waving when she’s supposed to wave, but her mind keeps drifting to California.

After the ceremony she barely gets time to breathe before someone is guiding her toward the press area. It's the usual semicircle of reporters and recorders and people leaning forward waiting for sound bites. Except this time, she can tell immediately something is different. There are too many eyes on her with too many cameras pointed directly at her instead of rotating evenly between the medalists.

She knows they don’t just want to talk about skating tonight, they want to talk about you.

She sits down, adjusts the medal slightly so it stops hitting the table, and fumbles with the microphone stand a little because her hands are still slightly shaky and she’s more tired than she’s ever been at a competition.

The first question comes quickly. “Alysa, first of all, congratulations on the bronze. You looked a bit hesitant on your opening triple Axel today. Was it difficult to stay focused on your own programs while knowing what happened in Colorado? And to add, how is she doing? Have you spoken to her yet?” It's not even subtle or attempts to be.

Alysa glances down at the microphone for a second, then back up. She clears her throat a little. “Uh, thanks,” she says. “Yeah… she’s doing better. It really is just lucky that she didn’t suffer any major injuries besides a concussion and a broken nose.” She pauses for a second, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “I actually saw her last night, which is why I guess I looked hesitant out there. I was feeling a little more tired today.” It’s a very honest answer but she doesn’t have the energy to manufacture polished media answers right now.

Another reporter jumps in. “Did you consider withdrawing from the event after what happened?”

Alysa doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” she says immediately. “I was very close to withdrawing today. But everyone was in my ear about being here and putting down a score,” she continues, then adds, without really thinking about how it sounds publicly, “especially her. So here I am.”

A few reporters exchange glances before another question comes from the other side. “Do you wish you placed higher? Do you feel like there’s something you would’ve done differently in the program if you were more focused?”

Alysa leans back slightly in her chair and shrugs, the medal clinking softly. “No,” she says. “I haven’t even really thought about how I looked out there. I’m not really attached to any scores or anything.” She pauses, then adds, very matter-of-fact, “But I couldn’t disappoint my team or my girlfriend, so what happened happened.” The word girlfriend leaves her mouth before she fully processes it. There’s a half-second where she realizes what she just said in front of a room full of reporters and cameras. She feels heat rise into her face immediately, a light blush spreading across her cheeks.

Pre-Olympics Alysa would have never said that so casually. Pre-Olympics Alysa would have dodged the question or would have said someone important to me. She used to be so careful about protecting the privacy like it was something fragile that would break if people looked at it too closely.

That slowly changed in the 3-day distance between you after the opening ceremony and it gradually changed after that long emotional talk in your dorm in the Olympic village.

Now, it officially and completely changed when she thought she might lose you on a mountainside in Colorado and realized she does not care who knows anymore. She has one thing she is actually afraid of losing. And it’s not medals.

Another reporter raises a hand. “How did you feel when you first heard about the crash?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose. Her fingers lace together on the table for a second before she answers. “It was definitely scary watching it live,” she says quietly. “I guess I’m kind of trying to block that out right now, so…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

The room goes quiet for a second, respectful. It's like everyone suddenly remembers that behind the medals and rankings and headlines, these are just people watching people they love get hurt in real time sometimes.

Finally, mercifully, someone asks a question directed at one of the other medalists about their program layout, and the attention shifts slightly away from Alysa. She can breathe again.

She answers a few more skating questions after that but her answers are shorter now. She's polite, but distant. Her energy is gone and her mind is already somewhere else.

Back when she first started dating you all those years ago, she treated your relationship like something she had to keep separate from skating. Like there was Alysa the athlete and Alysa the girlfriend and those two people shouldn’t overlap too much in public. She thought she was protecting something, protecting privacy. Protecting the image of being calm and detached and unaffected. But now she sits at this table with a bronze medal around her neck and realizes something very clearly:

She was never detached. She was just scared of people finding out how easily she could crumble if it came to you. But the truth is out there now and the truth is simple; she doesn’t want to pretend otherwise anymore.

She can lose competitions she can miss jumps. She can place third or fifth or get disqualified. She can live with all of that. But she cannot live in a world where she pretends you are not the most important thing in her life just to look more composed in a press conference.

So when the press conference finally ends and someone thanks the athletes and the microphones click off and the cameras start lowering, Alysa stands up, adjusts the medal once more, and exhales slowly. She doesn’t care what the headlines say tomorrow, she just wants to go home.

-------

By the time Alysa finally gets back to California, the last couple of days feel like it lasted a year. Everything blurred together into one long stretch of noise and fluorescent lighting and people asking questions she didn’t really care about answering. The only thing that felt sharp and real through all of it was you: in a hospital bed, or on a phone screen through your coach’s texts, and in the back of her mind every time she stepped on the ice.

So when she unlocks the apartment door and steps inside, the quiet almost surprises her. There aren't any crowds here, no cameras or even sound--partly because you're still concussed. She's finally home.

She drops her bag by the door and takes a few steps into the living room, and that’s when she sees you on the couch.

You look worse than the last time she saw you. The bruising under your eyes has fully bloomed now—dark purple and blue spreading across your cheekbones, the broken nose splint still taped across the bridge, faint yellowing bruises starting to show along your jaw and temple. You’re sitting up, heading resting against the couch cushion in sweats and one of her hoodies, looking like someone who got into a fight with a mountain and technically won but at a cost.

And then you see her. Your entire face lights up so fast it’s almost painful to watch. Your smile spreads wide and bright and immediate, and then you wince slightly because smiling that wide probably pulls on your bruises and your nose, but you don’t even try to hide it.

Alysa feels something in her chest loosen for the first time in days. She walks over slowly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, and stops in front of the couch for a second just looking at you. Taking in the bruises, the splint, the way you’re sitting carefully like your ribs probably hurt. She also notices the way you still somehow look happy just because she walked into the room.

She sits down next to you carefully, not too close at first, like she’s still half in hospital-mode where everything about you is fragile. She reaches for your hand which you let her take it immediately, your fingers sliding into hers like they’ve been waiting for that specifically.

“I really missed you,” she says quietly.

You squeeze her hand. “I missed you more.”

She huffs a small laugh. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” you say. Then you look at her properly, eyes softening. “And I’m so happy for you. Bronze isn’t bad for running on a few hours of sleep.”

Alysa smiles a little at that, the corner of her mouth lifting. She brings your hand up slowly and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles. You close your eyes at that, like even that small contact feels like something you’ve been waiting for.

“I’m really happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

Alysa leans back into the couch slightly, still holding your hand. “Oh yeah?” she says lightly. “Your coach wasn’t cutting it for you?”

You snort softly. “No. I couldn’t convince him to let me do a single thing.”

“But you’ll convince me?” Alysa asks, raising an eyebrow slightly.

You open your eyes again, a tiny smile tugging at your mouth, but you don’t answer that question. You just look at her for a second, studying her face like you’re making sure she’s actually here and not about to disappear onto another plane again. “Can I have a kiss?” you ask quietly.

Alysa immediately shakes her head. “We can’t. You’ll hurt your nose.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You squeeze her hand. “Please?”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re concussed and manipulative.”

You tilt your head just slightly, that stubborn look she knows too well. “Please?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose, already losing the argument. She leans in very slowly, one hand coming up to gently cradle the side of your face, careful to avoid your nose and the bruising. The kiss is soft and careful, short. Just lips touching and lingering for a second longer than necessary because neither of you wants to be the one to pull away first. When she pulls back, she stays close enough that your foreheads almost touch.

You open your eyes again and look at her, then say, very casually, “I wanna watch the replay of my run.”

Alysa immediately leans back like you just suggested something insane. “No.”

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

“We are not watching that. Ever.”

You shift a little on the couch. “I think I looked cool for the most part.”

“Please,” Alysa says, shaking her head. “We can’t watch that. I don’t want to see it.” Her tone is different now; it doesn't sound joking or teasing. It's something sad sitting underneath the words.

You notice immediately so you don’t push it. Instead you just nod slightly and say, “Okay.” Then after a second, softer, “Can I watch your program then?”

Alysa sighs, leaning back into the couch. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “Or the day after.”

You nod again, like that’s fair. Your eyes close after that, not fully asleep, just tired. Healing-tired. Concussion-tired. Everything-hurts-and-I’m-trying-not-to-complain tired. Alysa shifts a little closer and gently leans her head against your shoulder, careful not to jostle you too much. Your hands are still intertwined between you on the couch.

“Did you eat yet?” she asks quietly.

You hum softly. “Yeah.”

“You tired?”

Another small hum. “Yeah.”

So you just sit there. It's rather conservative to what you're both used to. There are not tight hugs or intense make out sessions or making up for lost time. It's just quiet hand holding. And yet somehow it feels bigger, much more important. Like all the things you didn’t say during the worst week of both of your seasons are sitting quietly in the space between fingers and shoulders and the way neither of you lets go first.

Alysa stares ahead at nothing in particular, feeling the warmth of you next to her, the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the slight squeeze of your fingers every few seconds like you’re making sure she’s still there too. She thinks about how close she came to a world where this couch would be empty.

Her grip on your hand tightens slightly without her meaning to. You squeeze back immediately, eyes still closed.

And for the first time in days, Alysa finally feels like she can sit still without waiting for something bad to happen next.

BONUS:

Three weeks into recovery, the apartment has fallen into a very specific rhythm. Lights dimmed more often than not because of your concussion. Curtains are half closed. The TV volume is always low. Alysa's moving around quieter than she normally would. Your world has shrunk down to the couch, the bed, short walks around the block, doctor appointments, and Alysa. Mostly Alysa.

Your nose is finally healing enough that the splint is gone, the bruising has faded from dark purple to that ugly yellow-green stage, and the swelling has gone down enough that you don’t look like you lost a boxing match anymore. You still can’t snowboard, still can’t train, still can’t look at screens too long, still get headaches if you move too fast.

But you can kiss now without feeling like your face is going to fall off. Which has quickly become your favorite development.

It’s mid-afternoon, the curtains slightly drawn so the room is filled with that soft, grayish light that makes everything feel slower. You had gone on a walk that morning—Alysa insisted on it, said you needed fresh air and sunlight and “normal human activity”—but by the time you got back you were exhausted in that deep, concussed way where your brain just feels heavy. So you convinced her to lay down with you.

Now you’re both on your sides in bed, facing each other, blankets half tangled around your legs, her arm resting loosely across your waist. You’re close enough that your knees keep bumping every time one of you shifts slightly. You’re talking about nothing important. Like literally nothing. Groceries, a movie you half watched last night, your coach sending you rehab exercises you don’t want to do. It’s quiet and slow and comfortable in a way that feels like something you waited weeks for.

Alysa is halfway through telling you about something Massimo and Philip said at practice when you just lean forward and kiss her. For a second she just kisses you back automatically, like muscle memory, soft and familiar. Your hand slides up to her jaw, thumb resting just under her ear, and the kiss lingers a little longer than a casual one should.

When you pull back slightly, you’re still close enough that your noses almost touch. She looks at you for a second like she’s trying to act unimpressed, but her hand slides up your side a little under your shirt anyway. You kiss her again before she can say anything. This time it’s slower. You don’t rush it. Your lips just move against hers gently at first, soft and careful, even though you don’t need to be anymore. Her hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading there like she wants to keep you close without pulling too hard.

You kiss like that for a while—slow, lazy, unhurried. The kind of kissing where no one is trying to get anywhere, just staying there because it feels good and safe.

After a few minutes, the kisses get a little less careful. Like you’re both remembering what this feels like after weeks of hospital rooms and flights and distance and being scared and not being allowed to touch each other properly.

Your hand slides from her jaw into her hair. Her hand moves from your waist to your back, fingers pressing lightly through your shirt. You kiss her again and again, sometimes slow and lingering, sometimes a little hungrier like you’re making up for lost time.

Every once in a while one of you smiles into the kiss for no reason. At one point she kisses you and you make this soft little sound without meaning to, and she pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You know we can't do anything,” she says quietly.

“Shush,” you murmur, already leaning in again.

You kiss for so long that time starts to feel weird and stretchy, like you’ve been there for ten minutes or an hour and it doesn’t really matter which.

Eventually Alysa pulls back a little more, resting her forehead gently against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier than you were before. “We have all the time in the world, you know,” she says softly. "So, we don't have to have all our kisses right now."

You look at her, eyes still half-lidded, and smile a little. “I know.” Then you kiss her again, quick this time. “But this is just my favorite thing in the world,” you add quietly. Then after a beat, “Well… it’s my favorite thing that I’m allowed to do.”

Alysa rolls her eyes immediately. “You’re being silly.” But she’s already leaning in again before she finishes the sentence, and you meet her halfway.

You're two people lying in a dim room in the middle of the afternoon, kissing like they’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else they’d rather do. And after everything that happened, that feels like the best possible ending to the worst few weeks of both of your lives.

------

was this too much? idk sorry. if u think abt it,,,, alysa having that weird feeling in the beginning was kinda like her spidey senses going off so does this count as a spidey update too??? (im at a crossroads w spide!alysa which is why i'm here with this instead)

--—-

tag list :P

------

You were not drunk.

You were just…a little fuzzy.

A little warmer than usual.

A little slower at pronouncing your words correctly.

So, that did not count as drunk.

“Y’know,” you said, leaning one shoulder against the kitchen counter while pointing your cup vaguely in Mina’s direction, “you’re looking at me like I’m about to commit a crime.”

Mina deadpanned, “Because you’ve been staring at Grace like you’re one inconvenience away from arson.”

You gasped.

“Wow,” you said, scandalized. “That’s…so mean.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. “You just literally called the Bluetooth speaker a toaster twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, it does look like one.”

“It was glowing blue,” Mina added.

“That’s…not my problem if it looks like a toaster, okay?”

Mina and Natasha looked like they wanted to laugh and put you down like a wounded animal at the same time.

The party was small, just a bunch of mutuals and a few tag-alongs at your friend’s apartment. There were maybe twenty people total, music low enough to talk over, half-empty snack bowls on the coffee table, and fairy lights strung around the living room that made everything feel too soft and too intimate.

Which was unfortunate.

Because Grace is here after both of you were literally dragged out of your dorm, thanks to Mina and Natasha.

And Grace in small, cozy, warm lighting should’ve come with a warning.

She’d been by your side most of the night in that easy way she always was, drifting near you without either of you needing to say it out loud. She’d laughed at your stupid jokes, nudged your shoulder when you got dramatic, and looked at you a little too long a few times in a way that was making your already compromised brain very difficult to manage.

And now you were seven drinks in and trying very hard not to say something life-ruining.

Grace had gone down the short hallway a few minutes ago, probably to use the bathroom or take a breather for a quick minute.

Which was fine.

Totally fine.

You were normal about it.

Except you kept looking toward the hallway anyway.

Mina noticed and pointed it out, of course.

“You are down catastrophic,” she muttered.

You frowned at her. “W-Whaatt?”

She tilted her cup toward the hall. “You’ve checked if Grace is coming back for at least…eight times.”

“No…that is a slander.”

“You are slurring your words now, you know,” Natasha casually said before taking a sip from her drink.

“I am not slurrin’. I’m enunciating…creatively.”

They both laughed.

You were about to defend yourself from their insults, but when you looked toward the hallway again…and immediately stopped breathing.

Grace was there.

But she wasn’t alone.

Some girl…one of your friend’s mutuals, maybe, someone you vaguely recognized from earlier but definitely weren’t close with, had Grace backed into the corner where the hallway bent near the guest room.

Not aggressively.

Not violently.

But close.

Too close for your liking.

One hand on the wall beside Grace’s shoulder.

Head tilted.

Smiling in a way that instantly made your skin heat.

And Grace…

Grace was doing that thing.

That terrible, quiet thing she did when she got uncomfortable and didn’t know how to make someone stop without feeling bad.

Her smile was tight.

Polite, even.

Her shoulders stiff.

Her eyes flicking away.

And the second you saw it, something in your chest snapped so fast it almost made your ears ring.

You straightened so abruptly that Mina and Natasha blinked.

“Oh no…” Natasha said immediately.

You were already moving.

Not fast enough to fall over.

But fast enough to make it very clear you were not acting under the supervision of rational thought.

You crossed the living room, ignored at least five people trying to say your name, and turned into the hallway with the kind of reckless confidence only mild intoxication and unresolved feelings could produce.

“Grace.”

Both of them looked up.

Grace’s eyes widened the second she saw you.

And that one look, relieved, startled, soft, nearly made you black out right there.

The girl blinked. “Oh, hi.”

You inserted yourself directly into the space between them with all the subtlety of a train derailment.

“Hi,” you said.

Your voice came out suspiciously calm.

Which was bad, because calm for you usually meant you were seconds away from acting insane.

You reached for Grace without thinking, and your hand found her wrist, then slid instinctively down into her hand.

Warm.

Soft.

Immediate.

Grace went very still behind you.

You turned to the girl and smiled with every ounce of fake sweetness in your body.

“Sorry,” you said. “I need to steal her from you.”

The girl frowned. “We were talking.”

“Mm, yeah, yeah.” You nodded once. “Not anymore.”

Behind you, Grace made the tiniest choking sound, as if she tried her best not to let out a laugh.

The girl looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh of be offended. “Okay…?”

You squeezed Grace’s hand once.

Not even consciously.

Just because you needed to.

Because she was here.

Because she was warm.

Because some horrible, possessive little part of you wanted everyone in this apartment to know she was not available for random hallway flirting.

“She’s with me,” you said.

The girl raised a brow. “And?”

Your jaw tightened.

“She’s not interested…in you.”

The girl glanced over your shoulder toward Grace, then back at you. “Grace can say that herself.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

Because she was right.

Technically.

But also, technically, you were currently being held together by vodka, jealousy, and a deeply unhealthy amount of longing, so “technically” was no longer your concern.

The girl crossed her arms. “She’s single, isn’t she?”

And that…

That was it.

That was the exact moment your brain fully disconnected from your body.

Because yes.

Grace was single.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe you were sick of hearing it.

Maybe you were sick of people looking at Grace and seeing an opening when all you could see was her.

Maybe you were sick of acting like your feelings were subtle when they had clearly become everyone’s business except Grace’s.

Maybe you were just tipsy enough to stop caring about the consequences.

Whatever it was…

You didn’t think.

You just turned.

Lifted your free hand to Grace’s face.

And kissed her.

Everything stopped.

Your cup was long gone, abandoned somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway.

One of Grace’s sharp little inhales hit your mouth before the rest of the world disappeared.

And then…

God.

Grace kissed back.

Not for long.

Not enough to make it messy.

Just enough.

Just enough that your heart detonated instantly in your ribcage.

Her lips were soft and warm and stunned.

Her hand twitched in yours.

And for one impossible, reckless, world-ending second, it felt like your body had finally acted on something your heart had known for months.

Then you pulled back.

Barely.

Still close enough to feel her breath.

Still close enough that if Grace leaned in even an inch, you would’ve folded immediately.

The hallway was dead silent.

You turned your head just enough to look at the girl.

Your face was probably on fire.

Your pulse was trying to kill you.

But somehow…somehow, you still managed to say, “She’s not single.”

The girl stared at you.

Then at Grace.

Then back at you.

And very slowly, with the expression of someone realizing she had accidentally wandered into the middle of a very unresolved situationship, she lifted both hands in surrender.

“...Right, right,” she said.

Then, awkwardly, “Okay. My bad.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Slipping back toward the living room and out of the hallway with enough speed to make it clear she wanted absolutely no part in whatever the hell had just happened.

The second she disappeared…

The adrenaline left your body.

Completely.

And in its place came the full, horrifying realization of what you had just done.

You kissed Grace.

You kissed Grace.

You had just kissed Grace in the hallway of your friend’s apartment in front of another person, as if you were in a dramatic indie film directed by your emotional instability.

Your entire body went hot.

Then cold.

Then hot again.

You turned back to Grace slowly.

And nearly died on the spot.

Because Grace was staring at you.

Wide-eyed.

Pink-cheeked.

Breathing a little harder than usual.

Her lips slightly parted.

And now that the crisis was over, all that was left was you, her, and the kiss still hanging in the air between you like live electricity.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You immediately covered half your face with your free hand.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, more horrified this time. “I’m so— I mean, I’m not sorry, but I also— I didn’t— I mean, I did—”

Excellent.

Brilliant.

You sounded like your brain had fallen down the stairs.

Grace was still looking at you.

Still not speaking.

Which somehow made everything ten times worse.

You were still holding her hand.

You let go immediately as if you’d just touched a live wire.

“Sorry,” you blurted. “Not sorry for…for the kiss. I mean, not fully. I mean—”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Jesus Christ.”

You wanted to die.

Actually die.

Preferably instant.

But when you forced yourself to look at Grace again, she still wasn’t pulling away.

Still wasn’t upset.

Still wasn’t looking at you like you’d ruined anything.

If anything, she looked…

Stunned.

Soft, even.

Almost scared to move.

And somehow that made your heart pound even harder.

You swallowed.

Then laughed weakly, because if you didn’t laugh, you were pretty sure you were going to disintegrate into atoms.

“Okay,” you said, voice embarrassingly small now. “So that was…not very roommate-like of me.”

Grace’s cheeks went pinker.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Oh no.

Oh, this was somehow getting worse.

You dragged a hand through your hair and looked anywhere but directly into her eyes.

“I just—” you started, then stopped, then tried again. “She was annoying. A-And…too close. And you looked uncomfortable. A-And…when she said that you were single…I-I just—”

You made a helpless little motion with your hands that somehow conveyed absolutely nothing.

Grace’s mouth twitched.

Just barely.

That nearly killed you.

“N-No, don’t…don’t smile,” you said immediately, pointing at her like you had any right to be dramatic right now. “This is serious. I-I’m actively ruining my life in front of you, Grace.”

That did it.

Grace let out the tiniest, breathiest laugh.

And somehow that made you even more nervous.

Because now she was looking at you with something unbearably soft in her expression, and if she kept doing that, you were going to accidentally confess every thought you’d ever had about her.

Which, unfortunately, was exactly what happened.

Because your stupid, tipsy, emotionally compromised mouth kept moving.

“I mean— I w-wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to,” you muttered.

Grace froze.

You froze.

Then immediately wished the floor would open and consume you.

Your eyes widened.

“I mean— no, t-that’s not! I mean, it is what I meant…but not like—” You covered your face again. “Oh my God…”

Grace said your name softly.

That was somehow worse.

You lowered your hand just enough to peek at her.

She was still pink.

Still shy.

Still looking at you like she was trying very hard not to hope too quickly.

And suddenly, despite the embarrassment trying to kill you, one very clear thought pushed through all the panic that if you backed out now…you were going to hate yourself forever.

So, you swallowed.

Hard.

Looked at Grace properly.

And asked, voice small and stumbling and completely sincere, “Do you…w-wanna—”

You stopped.

Your throat closed.

Grace waited.

You tried again.

“Do you wanna maybe…like, if you want…only if you want—”

You groaned and rubbed at your face.

“God, this is humiliating.”

Grace made a tiny, helpless sound that might’ve been a laugh.

You looked back at her, cheeks burning so badly you thought you might actually combust.

Then forced the words out all at once before you lost your nerve.

“Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Terrible.

Your heart dropped straight into your shoes.

You stared at Grace in complete, naked panic.

“I-I know that was really fast,” you blurted. “And technically a really bad timing, and I’m kind of a little drunk, but not drunk enough to not mean it, and I know kissing you first and then asking is maybe a bit psychotic behavior, but I just—”

Grace kissed you.

This time, you were the one who stopped breathing.

It was soft.

Quick.

Shy.

Like she’d done it before, she could talk herself out of it.

And when she pulled back, her whole face was pink.

Her voice, when she spoke, was so quiet that you almost missed it.

“O-Okay…” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace looked down.

Then back up at you through her lashes.

Still pink.

Still shy.

Still devastating.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

Your brain fully left the chat.

You stared at her.

Grace stared back, clearly nervous now, too.

And then, because you had apparently become incapable of acting normal in her presence, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

Grace laughed.

Actually laughed.

And the sound hit you straight in the chest so hard it almost made your eyes sting.

You grinned before you could stop yourself.

A stupid, helpless, disbelieving grin.

“You’re my girlfriend?” you asked.

Grace’s smile turned shy and unbearably fond.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago.”

“Right…right.” You nodded seriously. “Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before you could say anything else humiliating, you reached for her, slower this time, giving her every chance to stop you.

She didn’t.

So you gently took her hand again.

And this time, when her fingers laced with yours, Grace squeezed first.

—

Grace had been trying very hard not to stare at you all night.

She was failing.

Spectacularly.

It wasn’t even your fault.

Well…

No, that was a lie.

It was at least partially your fault.

Because you’d had just enough to drink to become softer than usual, and that version of you was incredibly dangerous to Grace’s emotional stability.

You were warmer tonight.

Looser.

A little clingier in that absentminded way that made Grace’s heart behave as it had never once been trained to survive around you.

At one point, you’d leaned close enough for Grace to smell the sweetness of your drink and whispered, very seriously, “Y’look too pretty tonight.”

Grace had nearly folded on the spot.

You’d then immediately frowned and added, “That was rude of you, actually.”

Which had somehow made it worse.

So, yes.

Grace had spent the entire evening pretending she was normal while internally losing her mind every time you looked at her for more than two seconds.

She wasn’t doing a good job.

That was probably why she’d gone down the hallway in the first place.

To breathe.

To reset.

To stop herself from making eye contact with you and accidentally confessing in somebody’s kitchen.

Instead, she got cornered.

The girl had seemed harmless enough at first.

Familiar face.

Easy smile.

One of those social people who made conversation look effortless.

Grace had smiled politely when she got stopped in the hallway, because that was what Grace did.

Only for the conversation to shift into flirting so quickly and so obviously that Grace barely had time to process it.

And then suddenly the girl was closer.

Too close.

Close enough that Grace became aware of the wall at her back and the narrowing space around her and the fact that she didn’t know how to leave without making things weird.

Which, unfortunately, was Grace’s personal nightmare.

She hated being rude.

Hated confrontation.

Hated making people uncomfortable, even when she was the one currently uncomfortable.

So she’d smiled tightly.

Tried to respond politely.

Tried to angle herself away.

And secretly, stupidly, hopelessly wished for you.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just in the small, pathetic way Grace always wanted you when things got too difficult for her.

Because you noticed.

You always noticed.

And sure enough—

“Grace.”

Grace looked up so fast it almost hurt her neck.

And there you were.

Coming down the hallway with your cheeks flushed, your eyes sharp, and your entire body radiating the kind of energy Grace had only ever secretly fantasized about when she was being especially embarrassing at three in the morning.

Protective.

Possessive.

A little drunk.

A lot terrifying.

Grace’s heart tripped over itself instantly.

You didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even slow down.

You just walked straight up, stepped directly between Grace and the girl, and took Grace’s hand.

Took…

Her…

Hand.

Grace forgot how to function.

Actually forgot.

Because one second she’d been trapped in a conversation she didn’t know how to end, and the next, you were there…warm and solid and touching her like it was instinct.

Like, of course, your hand belonged in hers.

Grace stared at your joined hands like she might faint.

Then she looked at the side of your face.

And the expression there nearly finished the job.

You looked calm.

But Grace knew you.

Knew the tiny tension in your jaw.

The edge in your voice.

The way your fingers tightened around hers just slightly, like you were grounding yourself through her.

You were jealous.

Actually jealous.

And Grace, tragically, was not nearly evolved enough to be normal about that.

“She’s with me,” you said.

Grace nearly stopped breathing.

The girl frowned. “And?”

Grace should have said something then.

Should have intervened.

Should have reminded everyone involved that this was rapidly becoming a very public emotional crisis.

But she couldn’t.

Because she was too busy drowning in the fact that you were standing in front of her like this.

Defending her.

Claiming her.

Like you had every right.

Then the girl said it.

“She’s single, isn’t she?”

And Grace felt your whole body go still.

The shift was immediate.

Palpable.

Dangerous.

Grace had just enough time to think, ‘Oh no…’

Before you turned to her.

Your hand left hers only to rise to her face.

Grace’s entire body locked up.

Your fingers were warm against her cheek.

Your expression was unreadable for half a second.

And then you kissed her.

Grace’s brain shut off instantly.

No thoughts.

No logic.

No oxygen.

Just you.

Your lips on hers.

Soft, impulsive, warm from alcohol and adrenaline and all the things neither of you had ever said out loud.

And the most humiliating part?

Grace kissed back without even thinking.

Of course, she did.

She had wanted this for far too long to do anything else.

It wasn’t a long kiss.

Barely even a proper one.

But it was enough to completely alter the chemistry of Grace’s bloodstream forever.

When you pulled back, Grace was pretty sure her soul had left her body.

And then you looked at the girl and said, “She’s not single.”

Grace nearly died on impact.

Because no.

No, she absolutely was not surviving this.

The girl looked appropriately stunned, then awkwardly excused herself and disappeared down the hallway.

Grace didn’t care.

She couldn’t care.

Not when every atom in her body was still focused entirely on the fact that you had just kissed her.

In public.

To prove a point.

And now you were standing in front of her, looking like you had just become aware of your own mortality.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You covered your face.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, sounding even more horrified.

And despite everything…

Despite the fact that Grace’s heart was currently trying to punch her through her ribcage, some small part of her wanted to laugh.

Because, of course, this was how it would happen.

Of course, you would do something life-changing and then immediately short-circuit.

You started apologizing.

Then…un-apologizing.

Then tripping over your own words so badly, Grace had to physically stop herself from smiling too much.

Because even now…even after publicly kissing her…you were still somehow the most endearing disaster Grace had ever known.

Then you said, “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to.”

And Grace’s entire internal structure collapsed.

Because there it was.

The truth.

Not cleanly.

Nor smoothly.

But honestly.

And that was somehow even worse.

You looked horrified the second the words left your mouth, but it was too late.

Grace had heard them.

Felt them.

Stored them somewhere in her chest that would never be the same again.

Then you looked at her with that open, terrified expression and started trying to ask her something.

You stumbled over every other word.

Paused.

Restarted.

Looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you up whole.

And Grace had never loved you more than she did in that exact moment.

Then finally, cheeks burning and voice shaking, you asked, “Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Grace forgot how to breathe for the second time that night.

Because this…

This was not a dream.

This was not wishful thinking.

This was not one of the humiliating little scenarios she had imagined before bed and then immediately forced herself to forget.

You were here.

In front of her.

Red-faced and stammering and sincere.

Asking.

Grace looked at you.

At your nervous hands.

At your wide, uncertain eyes.

At the girl who had just crashed into her life like a meteor and apparently intended to stay there.

And the answer came so easily it almost made her laugh.

She kissed you before she could lose her nerve.

Just once.

Soft and shy and quick.

And when she pulled back, you looked so stunned that Grace’s own nerves softened a little.

“Okay,” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace swallowed.

Then made herself say it properly, no matter how badly her heart was shaking.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

The expression on your face after that was going to live in Grace’s mind forever.

Pure disbelief.

Pure wonder.

Purely you.

And then, in a voice so reverent and stunned it almost made Grace burst into nervous laughter, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

That did make her laugh.

A real one this time.

Small, but real.

And when you asked, “You’re my girlfriend?” like you genuinely couldn’t process it, Grace had to bite back a smile.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago,” she reminded you.

You nodded solemnly like this was a legally binding point.

“Right…right. Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before she could say anything else, you reached for her hand.

Slowly this time.

Carefully.

Like you were asking.

Grace let you take her hand.

Then laced her fingers with yours on purpose.

Because if she was being honest, she’d wanted to do that for months too.