I shifted onto one elbow, striving to sound calm. “That sounds dramatic.”
“It kindafeelsdramatic.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down his chest. “I could use a drink of water. Want some?”
I nodded, and he got out of bed, walking naked into the bathroom. I sat up, trying to steady the strange ache in my chest. The room still smelled of soap and skin and sleep. I was aware of everything—the brush of fabric against my legs, the cool air against my shoulders.
I can’t believe I stayed.
I knew why. I’d wanted to, and that desire had overridden common sense.
Dean returned with two glasses of water and handed one over before settlingback onto the bed facing me, our legs overlapping, our knees touching.
My first time sharing a bed with anyone, and it didn’t feel awkward.
Dean took a drink, then leaned back, his weight on one hand. “I know a lot about you, Luka Davorin, but when you add it all up, it’s little more than a speck.”
I blinked. “And what do you know about me?”
He set his glass down on the nightstand and counted off on his fingers. “Five Grand Prix podium finishes, silver at Junior Worlds, bronze, then silver, then gold at the Europeans, bronze then silver at Worlds?—”
I chuckled. “Okay, you spoke the truth. You know a lot.” I tilted my head. “You have been researching me?”
He grinned. “Sure. I haven’t even gotten to mention your terrifyingly consistent jump statistics?—”
“Please stop talking now.”
“—or the fact that you’re known internationally for emotional restraint and freakish control—” I shoved my knee against his, and Dean laughed. “So… how old were you when you started skating?”
“Four.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Did you beg your parents for lessons or something?”
I stared at him for a moment before letting out a sigh. “No. My parents put me on the ice because I was good at it.”
The words sounded colder out loud than they did in my head.
I rested the glass against my knee, turning it slowly between my fingers. “I was a strange child,” I admitted. “Very serious. Very… ordered.” I smiled. “According to my mother, I lined my toys up instead of actually playing with them.”
Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that checks out.”
I arched my eyebrows at that, but kept going. “They took meskating one winter. I did not fall very much. Coaches noticed. Then more coaches noticed.”
“And suddenly you were Luka Davorin.”
“Not immediately.” I shrugged. “At first I was simply… useful.” Dean frowned, and I pressed on before he could interrupt. “Skating gave me language very early. Not verbal language.” He glanced up. “I was not very good with people.”
Dean coughed. “You still kinda suck at small talk.”
I shot him a look. “Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did.
“The rink made sense.”
