I realized it wasn’t true that I wanted to be alone.

My gratitude in seeing him standing there—soaking wet in the miserable December rain, not intruding but watching over me—was overwhelming.

I wanted Henry. No one else. His steady presence reassured me in a way I didn’t think anyone else could. That was actually a scary thought, and I almost bolted into the mess of narrow old streets.

Heart thumping, I closed the distance between us. I was still downhill, and it reminded me of the times when he stood atop the podium and I was a step below at silver, though it had been a couple of seasons since he’d beaten me.

He’d always seemed so unknowable—a robot, an alien, ha ha. He still watched me silently, rain dripping down his nose.

On my tiptoes, I slowly pressed a kiss to Henry’s rain-damp cheek.

After lowering my heels, I rested my temple featherlight against the side of his jaw, arms hanging at my sides.

I trembled—did Henry too? Holding my breath, I longed for more. More warmth than his ragged exhalations tickling my left ear. More contact. More skin. More, more, more.

What was I doing? Why was he letting me? This wasn’t—we weren’t supposed to be…

What?

For a horrible moment, I thought he’d shove me away or even just step back, and it hurt. I wanted to beg him to just let me…what? I wasn’t even sure.

Let me in.

Since when did I want that? What did that even mean? This was all getting too big, too out of control. It didn’t feel like a game at all anymore, and I guessed it hadn’t for a while.

We stood frozen with my lips a whisper from his skin. We should both run. I should never have gone to train in Toronto, even if Mr. Webber—

The sob burst free. I had to run, but hot tears choked me, my throat closing. And Henry let me in, enveloping me in his arms, my face buried in his throat as I cried.

Which didn’t really do it justice. I was weeping, and I was so relieved my mom wasn’t there ordering me to pull myself together. I reached around his waist and clutched him, hands squeaking on the slick rubbery material of his jacket.

Honestly, Henry had every right to tell me to get a grip already, but he only held me close. It should have been humiliating, but I was safe.

A Vespa approached up the hill with a thin, tinny hum of its engine as it passed. We stood locked together in the rain’s steady fall.

Eventually, I mumbled, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

All he said was, “I liked Mr. Webber.”

I sniffed loudly, tasting the salt of my own snotty tears. “He liked you too. He always admired your discipline and work ethic. He’d say stuff like, ‘Henry Sakaguchi isn’t complaining about an extra run-through.’ And he was right, of course. He was always right. I should have listened more. I should have—”