Chapter 188

Chapter 188
Elena

It was so perfectly Étienne—concerned, practical, deflecting from the emotional intensity with logistics—that I wanted to laugh and cry and kiss him all at once. Instead, I obediently took another sip, then carried the glass to the balcony, feeling his eyes on me the entire way.

I settled into one of the chairs and reached for my recovery gun, pressing it against my calves. The familiar percussion was grounding, pulling me back from the edge of whatever precipice we'd been standing on. I pulled out my phone and cued up my free skate music, needing something safe to talk about.

"The music has three sections," I found myself explaining as Étienne emerged, carrying his water. He settled into the chair opposite mine—too far away, always too far away—and regarded me with that focused attention that still made my breath catch. "The opening is all tension and restraint. Building slowly before anything breaks open."

"And the middle section?"

"That's where it gets aggressive. More technically demanding." I moved the gun to my other leg, trying to focus on the physical sensation instead of the way he was watching me. "That's where I have to land the most difficult combination. The one Michel keeps saying will either make or break my Olympic qualification."

"And the finale?"

"Resolution. Or supposed to be. But the music doesn't quite resolve—it leaves you hanging, questioning whether the journey was worth it." I paused, meeting his eyes. "Like life."

Something flickered across his face at that. "I've watched every one of your competitions," he said quietly. "Every single one, since your first junior event in Sofia. I've never missed a performance."

The admission landed like a physical touch, and I felt my throat tighten. "Every one?"

"Every one. Even the ones in Bulgaria, before you came to Paris. I would find the live streams, adjust my schedule around the time differences." He paused, and I saw him choose his words carefully. "I told myself it was part of my guardianship duties. But that was a lie, Elena. It was always a lie."

My heart was doing that complicated thing again, that slow expansion that felt like it might crack my ribs. "You watched me," I said softly. "All those times I thought I was alone, you were watching."

"I couldn't help it," he said, and there was something raw in his voice. "I couldn't stay away."

I set down the recovery gun. The distance between our chairs felt enormous, unbridgeable. "You're sitting too far away," I said, and I could hear the complaint in my voice. "I have to practically shout."

Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or resignation. He stood and crossed to the chair beside mine, but instead of sitting in it, he perched on its arm, maintaining that careful half-arm's distance that had become his signature move.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I shifted sideways without letting myself think about it, letting my head come to rest against his shoulder. I felt him tense—that initial resistance he always had—then settle into the position with a sigh that sounded like surrender.

This. This was what I'd been craving. Not the careful distance, not the controlled interactions. Just this simple closeness, the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing that somehow matched mine.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, and I could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest. "Your ankle held up today? No issues with your lower back?"

I couldn't help laughing. "You know, you sound like my entire medical team condensed into one person." I tilted my head to look up at him, catching the slight flush that crept up his neck. "Is this what having a boyfriend is supposed to feel like? Because it seems remarkably similar to having a private physician who's overly invested in monitoring every joint and muscle."

His expression turned rueful, almost sheepish in a way I rarely saw. "I can't help it. The thought of you in pain, of something going wrong that I could have prevented—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

"I don't want a caretaker," I said softly, needing him to understand. "I don't want someone who's only interested in making sure I'm physically safe and professionally successful." I paused, gathering courage. "I want someone who gets jealous. Who loses control sometimes. Who wants me in ways that have nothing to do with monitoring my recovery protocols."

His throat worked as he swallowed. "Elena—"

"I want you to want me," I interrupted, the words tumbling out. "Not just worry about me. Not just feel responsible. I want you to be selfish about it. I want you to lose sleep over it. I want you to feel like you might actually lose your mind if you can't—"

"I do." The words came out harsh, almost angry. "God help me, Elena, I do. Every single thing you just described. It's taking every ounce of self-control I have not to—" He stopped himself, turning his face away.

My heart was racing now, that slow expansion becoming something more urgent. "Then why won't you let yourself have it? Why do you always pull back just when things start to feel real?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his hand coming up to rub at his temple. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "Because I need to know that when you make this choice—if you make this choice—it's truly yours. Not something I've guided you toward. Not something I've manipulated you into wanting." He paused. "If I were to initiate, to push, to remind you that you could kiss me whenever you wanted... that would just be another form of control. Another way I'd be using my position to shape your decisions."

The explanation was so quintessentially him—overthought, over-analyzed, wrapped in layers of ethical consideration—that I felt something in my chest soften and break open at the same time. He was trying so hard to do the right thing. He always tried so hard. And I loved him for it even as I wanted to shake him.

"I didn't understand what it meant to really like someone before," I said quietly. "When Maxime was pursuing me, I thought the way my heart raced was what liking someone felt like. I thought the nervousness, the constant second-guessing—I thought that was romance." I paused, gathering courage. "But I know now that wasn't it at all. That was just anxiety wearing a prettier mask."

I reached for his hand where it rested on his knee, and when he didn't pull away, I brought it to my forehead. Then, slowly, deliberately, I guided his palm down across my face, feeling his calluses catch against my skin in a way that made my breath hitch. Down past my cheek, along my jaw, across my throat where I knew he could feel my pulse hammering. Down to rest over my heart where it was trying to beat its way out of my chest, then lower to my stomach, where I pressed his hand flat against the silk.

"From here," I whispered, my voice going hoarse, "all the way to here. Every inch of skin, every cell—they're all aware of you. All wanting you. It's not in my head, Étienne. It's not confused gratitude or misplaced dependence or any of the other things you've probably convinced yourself it must be. It's bone-deep. It's carved into me."

His hand tightened over mine, and I felt the tremor running through it. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Engraved in the marrow."

"Yes," I breathed, relief flooding through me that he understood, that he felt it too. "Exactly that."