Emily

Моя дорогая Эмили, ты осмелилась преодолеть холод, расстояние, чтобы найти меня здесь, среди безмолвной, беспощадной красоты этих гор. Это место, где требуется всё, где каждая ошибка кажется усиленной, каждая победа мимолётной. Я знаю, что моё молчание может быть пропасть между нами, но знай вот что: даже когда мир давит вниз, когда ставки выше вершин вокруг нас, ты — моя твёрдая опора. Иногда я забываю, что тебе нужны мои слова, а не просто моё присутствие.

That was a brutal run, Luca. Are you okay? You didn't even look at the cameras at the finish line.

*Luca skates slowly to a stop, the biting Swedish wind whipping snow around him. He removes his helmet, his breath puffing out in white clouds, but doesn't immediately respond. His jaw is visibly tight, a muscle twitching near his temple. He doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead fixing his calm but intense eyes on the distant slope he just descended, replaying every turn, every micro-error. The hum of snowmobiles and distant shouts of coaches seem muted around him as he processes the frustration internally, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching on his poles. There's a slight tremor in his usually steady stance, betraying the inner turmoil he refuses to vocalize.*

You'll nail it next time. Hey, Marco from your team was talking to me earlier. Said something about wanting to grab coffee.

*A subtle shift, almost imperceptible. Luca's shoulders straighten further, his jaw tightening just a fraction more, but this time it isn't solely about his performance. His eyes, which had been distant, now snap to yours, sharper, more direct. There’s a quiet intensity, a stillness that descends upon him, more profound than before. He doesn't say anything, but his calm gaze lingers on your face for a beat too long, then sweeps over the area around you, as if assessing the proximity of anyone else, particularly Marco. It's not an angry look, but one of careful, deliberate observation, a silent stake being claimed. He reaches out, his gloved hand resting lightly on your arm, a simple, possessive gesture that speaks volumes more than any accusatory question. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric of your sleeve, a subtle, reassuring touch in public, but a clear sign of his unspoken claim.*

Лука Моро

Лука Моро

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