“Tricks of the trade, Princess,” she replies with a smile, and I feel the weight of my avoidance lift immediately. “I heard skaters train on roller blades, and then go to camps in the UK a few times a year to stay in shape.”
“Oh my god, that’s insane.”
“Welcome to my life,” she replies, but it doesn’t sound dramatic or self-deprecating, and I see her grin at me, a little mocking. “But why are you thinking about it now?”
“I saw some footage today,” I say. “And I think I need to go.”
“Now?”
“He’s fifteen. I’m scared that he’ll have to quit before he gets to seniors. I think we can intervene now.” I sigh, and my shoulders sag automatically. “It makes sense to add a few extra days before Austria.”
“Well,” she replies easily. “That sucks.”
It’s so immediate and unfiltered, that I can’t help the small breath of a laugh that leaves me, some of the tension loosening in my chest without my permission.
“Yeah,” I say. “It really does.”
Cecilia shifts closer again, not like before, not urgent or searching, just there. Like she’s decided proximity is the easiest answer to something neither of us is actively trying to define.
“I mean,” she adds after a moment, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “It’s only, like, two weeks until Austria, really. It’s not like you’re disappearing.”
“No.” I smile into her mouth, kissing her lips, her jaw, the soft skin right below her ear. “Definitely not disappearing.”
There’s a pause, and it doesn’t feel heavy, but rather careful. We’re both aware of the shape of the conversation that we need to have without wanting to press too hard on it and risk something that’s been working without effort.
“I don’t—” I start, then stop, because I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence in a way that sounds normal and doesn’t immediately turn this into something bigger than I’m ready to handle.
She looks at me, waiting but not pushing. There’s a softness in her eyes that doesn’t ask for anything from me.
“I’m not very good at this part,” I admit, finally.
Her mouth curves slightly, because she definitely already knew that. “What part?”
I hesitate, and it’s ridiculous how unfamiliar this feels, how something that has come so easily with her up until now suddenly requires words I don’t quite know how to use.
“This,” I say, gesturing vaguely between us. “The… in-between, I guess.”
She considers that for a second, her gaze steady on mine, and there’s no judgment, not a single piece of evidence of that impatience from a few months ago. There’s only a kind of quiet understanding that makes it easier to keep going.
“You don’t have to be, Isabella,” she replies.
“So then?—”
“I mean it,” she continues, softer now. Her thumb is doing something delicious under my tank top, and suddenly I’m extremely aware we are in my kitchen, Cecilia pushed against the refrigerator like teenagers running out of time before their parents get home. “We’ll see each other in Austria and the Grand Prix in France after. And we’ll see.”
It’s not a plan. Definitely not a conversation. But at least it’s something. And the way she says it—so grounded, so certain without needing to define anything—feels more solid than anything I could have come up with on my own.
I nod once, letting that settle.
“Okay,” I murmur.
She smiles then, small and private, like we’ve just agreed on something without actually saying it out loud, and it does something so strange to my chest. Those words start to bubble up again, threatening to spill.
“Okay,” she echoes.
I reach for her without thinking, my hand finding her waist, and she leans into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there hasn’t been a shift between us at all.
And maybe there hasn’t, and this is just what it looks like when something is meant to keep going.
