Page 124 of About to Fall

He exhaled—shaky, uneven—and pressed his forehead against mine.

“Promise me when you feel like the walls are closing in,” he said, “you'll come find me. Two in the morning, three in the morning, I don't care. You come find me and I will hold you until it passes. Every time. For as long as it takes.”

“I can't promise I'll never have a bad night. I can't promise the voice won't come back. But I can promise you that I'll never be alone with it again.” I held his gaze. “You taught me it’s okay to take up space and I’m not going to shrink back into myself again. You're not going to lose me, Adrian.”

He pulled me closer, tucking my head under his chin, his arms locked around me like he could hold the whole broken world at bay if he just held tight enough. I pressed my ear against his chest and listened to his heartbeat—steady and grounding.

“You have the free skate tomorrow,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“Probably.”

Neither of us moved. His hand was absently tracing slow circles on my back. The room was quiet except for our breathing and the muffled hum of the city outside. I thought about his free skate happening later that evening—him on the ice, me watching from my parents’ hotel room along with the rest of the country. I wished I could be there to support him but the media frenzy would not be dying down anytime soon.

“Will it be weird not to have me there?”

“You’re always with me.” He untucked the chain with the cherry blossom and my key from under his t-shirt.

“I'm sorry for—”

“Nicky.” His arms tightened. “If you apologize for needing me, I swear to God.”

I almost laughed. Almost. “Okay.”

I closed my eyes and let myself melt into him. Let myself want this—being held, being loved, being allowed to exist without conditions or expectations or a scorecard.

Tomorrow, he would compete for his spot on the Olympic team. Tomorrow, everything would be complicated and public and terrifyingly real. Tomorrow, the world would want answers I wasn’t ready to give.

But tonight was ours.

And tonight was enough.

50. Adrian (Epilogue)

I had been to Milan twice before. Once with my parents over summer break, dragged through the Duomo and the Galleria while my mother collected shopping bags like trophies. Once for the Milano Cup two years ago, where I'd placed second behind a Russian skater with a quad Axel and a death wish. The Olympics were a different beast entirely.

The whole crew was here. 3xit had performed at the opening ceremony—Cam absolutely killing it on a massive stage overlooking the Piazza del Duomo—so he was in the audience, finally watching me compete in person for the first time in years. Bash had clinched his spot in the snowboard halfpipe finals with disgusting ease and was floating around the athletes' lounge in a cloud of triumph and questionable Canadian flag merchandise.

The Fontaines had made the trip. Dominic and Geneviève and Margaux, who had been vibrating with excitement since the moment she'd learned the Olympics had horses in it and was deeply disappointed to discover that equestrian was a summer sport. She'd recovered quickly and redirected her enthusiasm toward collecting pins from every country's delegation, a mission she pursued with the ruthless focus of a Fontaine.

My parents had even decided to grace us with their presence after my little post-competition freakout. I didn’t know if they were really trying to turn a new leaf or if this was just another performance for them. Time would tell.

I'd managed to ditch them after an awkward family dinner with the Fontaines on their first night in Milan. The Fontaines were well off in their own right but missing the requisite number of commas in their net worth to keep my parents’ attention. They'd latched onto the Walshes, who were apparently American royalty or at least filthy rich, which was close enough for the Zhaos. I recognized their son Bradley from The Spill—striking and stylish, the kind of guy who drew eyes wherever he went.

There were plenty of important people to keep my parents occupied. It let me focus on the competition ahead.

And for once, I felt oddly calm.

Usually before big competitions the adrenaline turned me into a feral animal pacing behind the boards. But tonight there was a stillness in my chest. Something quieter. Something that felt like peace.

My pink hair was in a crown of braids, rhinestones sparkling in the strands—Margaux's handiwork from this afternoon. My costume was custom, ordered months ago in anticipation of this exact moment. Bloodred with tiny crimson beads along the shoulders that transitioned to gradually larger crystals cascading down my chest, catching the light like a chandelier. The sleeves trailed dramatically low, designed to move like fire through my spins.

It had been a brutal journey getting here.

After Nicky withdrew from Nationals, everything had detonated. Sabrina, who had been waiting a decade for permission to hate Renaud openly, announced she was parting ways with him that same week. The skating press had a field day—Canada’s golden prince withdrawing from Olympic contention, the legendary Jean-Pierre Renaud losing two of his top skaters in the space of a week, speculation swirling about internal conflicts and coaching philosophy differences.