Page 86 of About to Fall

“It’s not about hiding. It’s about boundaries. Renaud doesn’t get a say in my personal life—not anymore. But if he finds out before we’re ready, he’ll make it about skating. He’ll make it about focus and distraction and everything he made it about with Théo at the end. And I won’t let him turn this into something ugly. Please, Adrian. You said you wanted to try.”

“You’re right. I do want to try. And if this is how we have to do it, I can be patient. We deal with the rest after the Olympics.”

He exhaled—relief loosening the tension in his shoulders—and I pulled him toward me by the front of his shirt. Kissed him slow and deep. His hands came up to my chest and he melted into me the way he only did when we were alone. When I finally pulled back, his lips were swollen and his eyes were half closed and I had to physically stop myself from carrying him to the bedroom.

I didn’t push back on his rules after that morning but they fucked with my head. Every morning I walked into that rink thirty minutes after the man I’d spent the night with, pretended I didn’t know the taste of his mouth, and acted like we were just two skaters who happened to train under the same coach, the stone in my chest got a little heavier.

We were careful at the rink. Had to be—Renaud was always watching and whatever fragile truce existed between us after Paris wouldn't survive him finding out I was sleeping with his nephew. But careful didn't mean dead.

I'd find excuses to walk past during his practice sessions. Forgot my water bottle. Needed to check the schedule. He'd spot me on the bench press with hands that stayed on my elbows longer than necessary. We'd end up in the same corner of the athletes' lounge, knees pressed together under the table while we reviewed playbacks.

Sabrina caught us once in the weight room. I was helping Nicky deepen a straddle stretch—legs spread wide on the mat, torso folded forward, my hands pressing gently on his lower back while he breathed through it. Perfectly innocent. Standard training partner stuff. Except my thumbs were tracing slow circles on the strip of bare skin where his shirt had ridden up and his face was flushed in a way that had nothing to do with flexibility.

She appeared in the doorway, took in the scene for exactly three seconds—my hands on him, his flushed cheeks, the loaded silence—raised a single eyebrow, and walked past us to the treadmill without a word.

I removed my hands. The foam roller suddenly became fascinating. Nicky dropped his forehead to the mat and sighed.

But after hours? Different rules entirely. We were supposed to take it slow but ended up spending almost every night together.

Some nights he'd try to teach me to cook—emphasis on try. I'd chop vegetables while he handled anything involving fire because I was a legitimate danger near a stove. He'd press up behind me at the counter, lips against my ear, correcting my knife technique, which inevitably turned into him bending me over the kitchen island with the vegetables completely forgotten. Some nights we'd order takeout and spend thirty minutes arguing about what to watch before inevitably putting on Avatar again anyway. Some nights we didn't talk at all—just existed in the same space, learning the shape of each other's silence.

I learned that he couldn't sleep without the white noise of city and organized his closet by colour. That he called his mother every few days. That he went home once a week to spend time with his family.

He learned that I couldn't function before coffee. That I snacked too much when I was bored. That my best friend and brother FaceTimed me at odd hours—and that I would absolutely answer those calls even when wandering around the apartment in just my boxer briefs.

He nagged me about my diet and my mess. I argued with him about his rigidity and stubbornness.

It wasn't perfect. We were both too fucked up for perfect. But it was real, and it was ours, and every morning I woke up with him beside me—warm and sleep soft and sometimes already reaching for me under the sheets—I thought maybe I'm not as broken as I thought.

Two weeks of sneaking between apartments. Two weeks of stolen kisses and shared meals and falling asleep tangled together. Two weeks of something that felt terrifyingly like the beginning of something good.

But my grandmother's voice was always in the back of my head: you don't get to keep the beautiful things.

Yeah, well. Maybe not. Maybe this had an expiration date like sakura in the spring. Part of me kept waiting for whatever was blossoming between us to disappear.

But my grandmother's lesson wasn't about losing something beautiful. It was about paying attention while it was here. Enjoying it. Not wasting the bloom by dreading the fall.

So I tried. For once in my life, I tried.

37. Nico

I had fallen down the Adrian rabbithole. It was hard not to be consumed in our own little bubble. The days were tortuous, circling each other at the rink without being able to touch. But the nights were ours.

After another exhausting day of training, we were at my apartment—I was making lemon chicken while Adrian set the table—when there was a knock at my door.

We looked at each other. I wasn't expecting anyone and it was too late to be a delivery.

Another knock. More insistent.

Adrian motioned toward the bedroom, the universal sign for should I hide?

“Nicolas Dominic Fontaine, you better open this door or I swear to God, I will kick it down.”

Shit. Kat. I had forgotten to return her text from three days ago and I had hastily hung up during our last FaceTime because Adrian was coming back with takeout. I shoved him toward the short hallway leading to my bedroom and smoothed back my hair and plastered on a bright smile.

I opened the door. Dark hair scraped back in her perpetual bun, pale blue eyes blazing, long wool coat over an oversized turtleneck, dark jeans and combat boots that looked like they could do serious damage to my front door. She was frowning, holding a half empty bottle of vodka and a pint of lemon sorbet—the only two things she kept stocked in her freezer.

“What the fuck, Nico? I haven't heard from you in days.”