Mark’s expression softened in a way I didn’t see often. “That sounds like him.” Then he glanced toward the mixed zone entrance where media staff were already gathering athletes for post-event interviews. “You want me to pull you from press?”
A small part of me yearned to say yes. I wanted silence. A locked door. Distance from cameras and questions and expectations.
But another part of me, the one built from years of competition and responsibility and finishing what needed finishing, reacted first.
“No. No, I’m doing it.”
Mark studied me. “Dean?—”
“I’m fine.” Even I heard how thin that sounded.
Ethan winced beside me.
Mark didn’t call me on it. “You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
“I know.” I dragged in a breath that refused to settle. “But if I don’t go out there now, everyone’s gonna know something’s wrong.” And I couldn’t deal with that.
Not yet.
Mark held my gaze another second before nodding. “Okay. Then we get through press fast, and after that you go back to the Village and shut your brain off for a few hours.”
Yeah, a great idea that sounded impossible right then.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket, trying to pull myself together before the cameras got anywhere near me. I looked up.
Luka stood several yards away near the entrance leading back toward the athlete areas, still wearing his Velkaran team jacket, accreditation resting against his chest. Mila and Sokolov were beside him speaking to an official, but Luka wasn’t listening.
His eyes were locked on me.
And suddenly the corridor felt too bright, too exposed.
“He heard,” Ethan murmured beside me.
I swallowed hard. “What?”
“What you told Mark.” Ethan’s voice stayed low. “Maybe not all of it, but enough.”
My chest tightened.
Across the corridor, he still hadn’t moved. Even from this distance, I could see the alarm in his face.
I wanted to go to him so badly it hurt. For one irrational second,all I wanted was to cross the corridor, grab hold of him, and bury my face against his shoulder until the panic stopped clawing through me.
Instead, we stayed exactly where we were, separated by officials and athletes and cameras and the reality of what this place demanded from both of us.
Luka’s fingers flexed once at his sides, the smallest movement, but I knew what it meant.
He wanted to come closer. I wanted him to.
God, I wanted him to.
But Sokolov was right there. Media staff crowded the corridor. Olympic volunteers streamed endlessly between us.
Wrong place, wrong moment.
Luka seemed to realize it the same time I did. I saw the control slide back into place across his expression, the visible effort it cost him twisting somewhere deep inside me.
Then he tipped his head, not toward the media area, but the exit.
