Page 38 of Love on the Edge
But it was.
And I can’t fucking pretend otherwise.
I brace my hands against the locker, exhaling hard, trying to push past the way my body still feels her, the way my head is still spinning, the way none of this, none of her, is something I can shake off. My pulse is still hammering, my skin burning where she touched me, where she pulled me in, and yet, there’s something heavier settling in my chest, something I can’t ignore.
Because this wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t just frustration or release or something we can both walk away from and pretend never happened.
It was her.
And if she thinks she can leave like nothing happened, like she isn’t unraveling right in front of me, like I didn’t just feel how much she needed that, needed me, then she doesn’t know me at all. Which, to be fair, she doesn’t, but I’m going to change that.
I drag a hand down my face, inhale deep, try to steady myself before I find her.
But I already know it won’t help.
Because the second I step into the rink again, I see her.
She is sitting near the benches, tying her skates. Too fast. Too tight. Like she is trying to outrun something.
I sit beside her, still feeling the weight of what just happened, still hearing the sound of her breathing unevenly against my skin, still tasting her on my lips. But my voice is steady. "I know you’re not eating, Val."
She freezes, just for a second. A split-second hesitation before she keeps tying, before she acts like she didn’t hear me.
Then—"I am."
"Not enough."
She exhales sharply, shoulders tensing, already bracing for a fight. "I’m fine, Ethan."
I shake my head. "No, you’re not."
She lets out a frustrated laugh, quick, sharp, humorless, like this conversation is just another thing she doesn’t have time for. "Jesus. I don’t need this from you."
"You don’t need it from me," I say, watching as she pulls the laces so tight I know it has to hurt, "but you’re going to hear it, anyway."
She scoffs, looking away. "I’m not at my optimal level."
My chest tightens. "What does that even mean?"
She looks at me then, and for a second, I swear I see something break in her expression. But she blinks, and it’s gone. "I need to be lighter to jump better."
The words land like a gut punch. I shake my head. "No, you don’t. You were stronger before."
She exhales, frustrated, like I don’t get it. Like I never will.
"Why do you care?" she asks, voice quieter now, like she’s not sure she even wants the answer.
I don’t answer right away, because there are a hundred things I could say, and none of them feel big enough.
Because it’s not just about skating. It’s not just about the way she pushes herself to the edge of breaking every time she steps on the ice. It’s about how I see her. How I’ve been seeing her. And how, no matter how much she keeps trying to push me out, I’m still here.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "Because it’s you, Val. And I can’t stand watching you do this to yourself."
She stills.
Her fingers tighten in the laces, knuckles going white, and for a second, she looks like she wants to run, like she wants to pretend she didn’t hear me, like she’s already thinking of the fastest way to shut this down.
