vivi @lukes-blade - Tumblr Blog

How It Feels to Fly

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Summary:

“You alright down there? Thought I saw my favourite employee face-plant.” “I’m off the clock,” you grumble into the snow. “Leave me alone.” You turn your head and see him looking down at you with a smirk. His face looks like that so often that it is truly a wonder it hasn’t gotten stuck like that. “Ah. Free to call me a dick without repercussions, I see.” “I’ll call you a dick regardless of the repercussions.” He laughs outright, crouching beside you, and offers a hand. As soon as you see it, you know you're not taking it. You'd never give him the satisfaction, in fact, you might just stay on the ground until the sun sets. That's how much you're willing to dig your heels in about this. “Need help?” “Nope.” “Really?” “Yup. The day I accept help from the likes of you is the day a snake can tap dance.” You try to stand, and immediately fall over again. Maybe you should just stay down here, melt into nonexistence. “Looks like Bambi needs some help.” Your head snaps up. What did he just—? “Call me that again, and you’ll need help. From an ambulance.” Or You’re an ambitious, if not a little hot-headed, chalet host fresh out of college, hellbent on finding yourself as well as making this winter your bitch. Enter your infuriating new client: pro snowboarder Luke Castellan, the bane of your existence. After making a terrible first impression, you’re determined not to let him ruin your season… and he seems equally determined to do the exact opposite.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Light Angst, Snowboarder!Luke, Chalet Girl!Reader, Teasing, Retired Frat Boy! Luke, Ski Resort Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Meet-Ugly, Falling in Love, Snowboarding, Cooking, Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans/Confessions, Protectiveness

WC: 15.8k

A/N: Inspired by Chalet Girl, a quintessential British classic, seriously, it's chef's kiss. Title from Cloud 9 from the DCOM, also chef's kiss, and I was listening to it when I came up with this. It was supposed to be 1 long chapter, but if I don't post this now, I'll go crazy and I'll never finish it plus the 1000 blocks rule just kicked my ass. I'll post it all as 1 chapter on ao3 soon. Also, I was supposed to get it out while season 2 was airing, oops. First time writing for Luke, so I hope it's good and you guys like! 😁

***

It’s ski season, bitches.

The perfect time to spend the next few months amongst the snowy mountains of Vermont, tucked away at a resort that looked like it belonged on a postcard.

How cute.

It honestly couldn't have come at a better time. Life was in a bit of a spiral for you. Well, more than a bit.

After finishing university, the plan kind of… evaporated. You were hit with the desperate need to do something before real adulthood kicked in. The mountains were calling to you. Or to be more clear, Golden Ridge Resort.

Plus, finding yourself at a ski resort instead of stuck at home had a sort of romantic notion to it.

The plan was simple: you’d work your ass off, save some money, and help out rich people on holiday, like the summer you spent working as a golf caddie, but hopefully with fewer creeps and no heatstroke.

And honestly? You’d been killing it so far.

You were likeable, competent, and good at pleasing even the most “difficult” customers, which made management love you.

Hence why they gave you the biggest fish in the pond.

Luke Castellan. Pro snowboarder, tabloid sweetheart, son of Hermes, and all-around golden boy.

“He’s a VVIP. You know what that means, right?” your manager, Quinn, explained, her voice a little shaky from her fifth cup of coffee. She's been going through it since you arrived, a bad breakup you presumed from the way she'd be on the verge of tears when she so much as saw a couple hold hands.

From the way she narrowed her eyes at you, it was clear that if you fucked this up, you might just be out of a job. Goodbye free lift passes, goodbye ski season romance.

“I understand.”

“I’ll be candid. If anything goes wrong, the press will be all over us and you know...” her voice cracks.

You didn't need to hear the end of the sentence. You could hear the implication “You’re fucked,” from a mile away.

But you'd be fine, right? He's your age, and from the way people talked about him, not only was he a snowboarding god, but he was also supposedly the sweetest guy alive. Seriously, you’d think he was the best thing since sliced bread the way people gushed over him.

“I got this,” you told her with forced confidence. “Luke Castellan is about to get five-star customer service. He won’t know what hit him.”

The rest of the day is the usual. Running errands, helping guests find their way around, and making polite, small talk that all sounds the same by this point.

By the time you get back to your room, it’s late, and you’re already getting ready for bed. Your electric toothbrush whirs loudly as you stare at your reflection, exhausted. Even now, you can still feel a crick in your neck from one of the guests, Mrs Rowan, making you lug her luggage up, down and all around.

She didn't even tip.

Finally… silence.

Before you got here, you didn't realise how much you loved it. But you finally had it, it was wrapping you in its warm embrace, practically lulling you to sleep already.

At least for two seconds.

There’s a loud knock on your door, almost hard enough to put a hole in it, and a familiar voice yelling your name.

“I’m coming!”

You walk over, half tripping on a discarded hoodie (you really need to clean this place up), and throw the door open.

“Luke Castellan?!” is the first thing you hear as your friend, Bridget, staying across the hall, barrels her way inside.

Hello to you too.

“You’re the fifth person to react like that,” you say, mumbling through the foamy toothpaste still in your mouth. You rush back to the bathroom and spit it out. “What’s the big deal?”

You turn to her and have to squint at the way she's glowing at the thought of this guy, smiling from ear to ear.

You've never seen her face move like that, not even when the cute ski lift operator told her she had “nice edges”. You still don't know what that means.

“He’s Luke Castellan.”

“Not an explanation,” you retort, bending down to pick up a stray sock here and there. You didn't want to seem like even more of a slob.

“Snowboarding sensation? Olympic hopeful? National team? Two-time world champion—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard—”

“Super hot,” she adds, flopping back onto your unmade bed, “dreamy and cocky but like in a fun way, y'know?”

She grabs one of your pillows and holds it to her chest, tucking it under her chin. With a sigh, she rolls over to face you, “I'm so jealous.”

“Is this all you came over to do? Gush over him? And lay on my bed?” you chuckle. As much as you enjoy her shenanigans, you didn't necessarily need a meeting with the head of Luke's fan club.

“Well, yes. And to warn you,” she says as she shoots up from the bed. In an instant, she's standing in front of you, dead serious.

“I know he’s pretty, but you can't fall in love with him, no matter how much you’ll want to. I don't want you to get hurt.” She lays a hand on your shoulder like she’s delivering a prophecy.

You chuckle at her dramatic tone, reaching over to mess up her hair. “I think I’ll be fine.”

If only you knew.

***

From the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, you are abuzz with nervous energy.

The air is cold, smacking you in the face repeatedly as you wait for his car to arrive, but you maintain your smile. A little wind won't stop you.

Though as time ticks by, you start to feel the toll of last night starting to take effect.

It was anything but easy.

Bridget stayed up with you all night, telling you all the ins and outs of Luke's life.

“Why do I need to know what his favourite Pop Tart is?” You moaned, half asleep, cuddled up in your covers, as Bridget shoved her laptop in your face.

“So you can anticipate his needs. And here I thought you were a professional.”

You zoned out about ten minutes in and fell asleep to the sound of commentators singing his praises and cheering fans.

So, now you were tired as hell and waiting out in the cold, looking more like an ice sculpture than a human woman.

You turn your head to see inside the chalet, imagining the heating, that beautiful rush of warm air surrounding you. You deserved that.

Management would have hell to pay if they're any later than they already are. You have half a mind to go inside and lie on the couch until they get there, but you can't.

You were going to be the first point of contact for him and his friends.

First impressions are important, and it’s hard to come back from a bad one.

You needed to prove to him that you were the best chalet host the mountain had to offer, and if the tips from your last guests were an indication, you were.

Just then, before you freeze to death, you see a car approaching, and you immediately perk up as you get into the zone.

You repeat to yourself your three rules: Smile. Flirt. Get that money.

You’d have them eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of the week and raking in enough cash to finance your eurosummer, you just knew it.

The white Jeep comes to a stop, parked right in front of you.

Showtime.

The sound of chatter and laughter as he and his friends exit the car fills the air. They were loud as hell, but you expected that. Normally, the more personable the guests, the more generous they are with their cash.

Very promising. Very promising indeed.

You scan through the faces, and then your heart skips a beat.

With parted lips, the air in your lungs escapes with a surprised puff.

He's fucking beautiful.

All you can think about is how he looks just as good as he did in the pictures that may as well be tattooed on your brain. Maybe even better. Dark hair, broad shoulders and a pretty nose, the kind of face that belongs on a billboard.

Rule number four, apparently:

Do not fall for the client.

But at the end of the day, you’re a professional. You cannot be swayed by just a pretty smile. He is a guest first and foremost.

You walk up with your best customer service smile plastered on your face and a winning attitude. Your shoes slip a little on the snow, but you quickly regain your footing. You curse yourself only to realise they were still chatting and didn’t see.

First impression was still intact.

You're almost there, pep very much in your step, but before you can even get out a word, Luke lays his eyes on you. Like a robot, he scans you and picks an automatic response.

“Yes, I’m his son. No, I can’t get you an autograph,” he drawls, already annoyed.

Then he spins back around as if he hadn’t just ruined your day in a matter of seconds. Just what about you screamed groupie?

Not to worry, you could fix this. It was just a simple misunderstanding, one you had to rectify. You shake off the confusion and regain your smile.

“Oh, that’s not—”

“Snowboarding fan then?” he interrupts, glancing back at you. Without waiting for an answer, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen, biting off the lid and scrawling his signature across your forehead with a Sharpie.

“Did you just—?”

“You’re welcome. Though I must say stalking me to my chalet is a scary amount of dedication.”

You're not sure if you're pissed he drew on your forehead and called you a stalker, or the fact that you just stood there and took it. If you were anywhere, you would've taken that pen and shoved it up his—

You let out a deep, clarifying breath.

Another rule to add: No maiming or killing the guests.

He pats your shoulder far too casually, like you’re a sad, abandoned puppy in the rain or something, before turning back to his friends. “Wasn’t the chalet host supposed to meet us here?”

“You just signed her forehead,” you huff. For the moment… fuck customer service. That’s permanent ink plastered on your skin. He’ll be lucky if you don’t commit a crime against him before the end of his stay here.

“Welcome to Golden Ridge,” You try to resist, but again you remind yourself of the no doubt giant Luke on your head, “...dick.”

You mutter it under your breath, but he has ears like a bat, apparently.

“Sorry?”

You clear your throat, fight back the evil smirk and put on your kindest voice.

“May I show you and your companions around your chalet? The porters will be just around to collect your bags for you.”

“By all means, lead the way,” he replies.

You open the doors and welcome them inside, fighting off the distaste you already have for Luke. With a shimmy, you take off your jacket and hold it in your arms. Maybe you could squeeze that instead of his neck.

He takes off his designer sunglasses because, of course, and as he leans in, he reads your name off the nametag.

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You don’t know if the sir had its intended effect, because it sounds like you’re being forced to chew wood.

Golden boy, my ass.

He has the audacity to poke your forehead. “Might want to get a picture of that before it wears off, or if it wears off.”

In this moment, you try your very hardest to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he's making it pretty hard. Clearly, this guy doesn’t have any survival instincts. You must reiterate, in any other place, at any other time, this would lead to a hospital visit.

You take a breath to calm yourself, but it does fuck all.

“Don’t poke me.”

You swat his hand away, then immediately poke his forehead back.

How does he like it?

“Hey,” he laughs, genuinely surprised at your little retaliation. “What happened to service with a smile?”

“I can do that, but that doesn't automatically mean I take shit from guys like you.”

You step closer, holding his gaze and add a contentious, “Sir.”

That certainly didn't make things any better, but if you back down now, you’d never live it down. At this point, it’s a stand-off on principle, and if it meant your ski adventure ended a little early, then… fuck it.

“Well, many girls like guys like me.”

“Your girlfriend likes guys that are rude?”

He kisses his teeth, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. The comment lands, you can tell, but he tries to laugh it off.

“Well, I happened to have just broken up with my girlfriend,” he says, voice light but eyes not quite matching, a slightly pained smile tugging at his mouth.

Now, any rational human being would’ve backed off.

But no.

He wrote his name on your head. With a permanent marker. At this point, you’ll bring this up until the day you die.

“Must’ve been your glowing personality,” you mutter.

A couple of his friends snicker behind him, and the flash of annoyance that crosses his face is delicious.

Payback.

It may be a small victory, but you’ll take it.

“Shall we get onto the tour?” you add sweetly.

He exhales through his nose, then gestures forward. “Let’s.”

You lead him through the chalet, boots thudding softly against polished wood floors. You've always thought it's one of the nicest ones at Golden Ridge.

It's rustic but elegant, like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie… not that you watch those.

The air smells faintly of pine and cedar. Massive windows frame endless white slopes outside, sunlight glinting off untouched powder. It looks soft enough to dive in, that's for sure.

“I think you'll find it's pretty perfect,” you explain, slipping back into professional mode. “You wake up in the mountains, step outside, and you’re not far from the lifts with all the snow you can muster.”

Luke’s gaze drifts around, taking it in. He's not impressed exactly, but appreciative.

You stop near the master bedroom and gesture. “This is your primary suite. It overlooks the whole resort and has a private balcony, fireplace and heated floors. You know, the works.”

He steps past you into the room, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Something about it felt intentional, but that might just be that incessant voice in your head cooking shit up. Nevertheless, heat sparks up your arm before you can stop it.

“Not bad,” he says, looking around but acutely aware of how close you were.

“High praise,” you reply dryly.

He turns and leans back against a wall to observe you yet again.

“You know, for someone who hates me, you’re doing a very thorough job.”

You meet his eyes, refusing to look away. “It’s called professionalism. Plus, I don't even know you well enough to hate you.”

“But you’re getting there?”

“With each passing moment.”

In the few minutes since you’ve met, you’ve already clocked a few things about Luke Castellan.

He’s observant. Doesn’t shy away from eye contact, prefers to hold it, actually, longer than most people would.

You can’t tell if it’s confidence or if he’s trying to intimidate you a little.

Maybe a bit of both.

And he definitely has a habit of standing just a bit too close, like personal space is more of a suggestion than anything else.

“And as my chalet host,” he continues, glancing around the room, “you’ll be doing all the cleaning, shopping, cooking…”

“Exactly.”

“So we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter under your breath.

“Hm?”

“Undoubtedly,” you correct without missing a beat. “Your wish is my command.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, the dangerous kind that means he’s about to be annoying on purpose.

“In that case,” he says, ticking items off on his fingers, “I want a five-course dinner, truffle risotto, a bottle of something expensive… and a frozen sculpture of me.”

“Frozen sculpture?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You said my wish is your command.”

You fold your arms, taken aback by this gross injustice. Who does he think he is?

“That's true, but don't forget I control your access to your food and what goes into it.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“You don't know what I'm capable of.”

The two of you stand there, sparks going off between the two of you. There’s hate in the air.

Yeah.

You were definitely getting there.

***

You're fucked.

The big fish you were supposed to make exuberant tips off of for the next month or so hated you, especially after that ‘glowing personality’ comment.

And you hated him just the same.

He was serious about that frozen sculpture, even made a comment to your boss about your “subpar” performance when you couldn't get one for him.

Thankfully, you get a brief but necessary reprieve from Luke as he and his friends all hit the slopes.

You're stewing over a hot chocolate in your staff break room as Bridget does the majority of your panicking for you. She's talking so fast, you don't even know how she's finding time to breathe.

“I told you all of this the night before you met him!”

“At 2 am, as I was falling asleep, after showing me countless interviews and footage from his competitions and fan edits. You can't blame me for not taking it all in.”

You rub your eyes, resting your head in your hands.

“Plus, I thought it’d be an easy assignment. The tabloids make him out to be an angel. Why the fuck would I need to know about his love life?”

You were so naive. Oh, how you missed that version of you from yesterday. She was so young, so happy, so innocent.

“His breakup with his ex was huge! How could you not have seen it? They were everywhere!”

Bridget brandishes her phone like a sword, typing away before handing it to you.

You scroll, seeing article after article: “Luke Castellan and Girlfriend Call It Quits After Three Years?!” and “Snowboarding’s Golden Boy Goes Solo After Messy Split.”

No wonder why he was offended.

“I’m sure it will blow over. We’re both adults.”

“For both your sake and mine, I hope it does.”

You look up from her phone with a curious look. “For your sake?”

“I need you to make amends with him so you can make an introduction. Help a girl out,” she whines, before picking a marshmallow from your hot chocolate.

“Trust me, he’s not as nice as he looks.”

***

You show up at his chalet, jaw set, ready to give him your best fake apology and get this over with.

You were tasked with accompanying him to an interview taking place on the mountain. Somehow, you’ve gone from chalet host to assistant. But he’s Luke Castellan; his word is worth gold.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls, opening the door just enough to lean against the frame. You’ve come to hate it when he does that.

“You’re my chalet host, and yet you were nowhere to be found. I have places to be, chop chop.”

“Dick.”

“What was that?”

You step closer, invading his space on purpose just the way he loves to do to you. “Dickhead. Did you get that?”

Guess that's a no on the apology.

He holds your gaze, almost as if he refuses to give you the satisfaction of looking away. “Loud and clear.”

“Perfect.”

He dumps his supplies on you, leaving you waddling to catch up to him.

“Don't fall behind.”

***

As the two of you travel to the slopes, you sneak a glance or two at him… sure, it's not surprising that he has fans. Sharp jawline, pretty lips—

The thought practically punches you in the face, and you look away quickly, the cold nipping at your nose, making you snuggle into your jacket a little more.

“See something you like?”

You grumble into your jacket. You were hoping he didn't see you, but you could never be so lucky.

“I was looking past you, not at you.”

“...funny. People would pay to be this close to me.”

Is he always like this? Or is it just you?

“Well, I know nothing about snowboarding, so all your little medals and trophies mean nothing to me.”

“That's obvious.”

“Good. So don’t even try it.”

The words echo for a moment, and in those fleeting seconds of silence, you realise you made a grave mistake.

“Try what? Hitting on you?”

When you don't respond, he comes to a stop. The idea is horrifically funny to him. He pauses to laugh and even slaps his knee.

That’s overkill. You’re a pretty girl. Anyone would be lucky to hit on you.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, coming down from his laughing fit as he wipes a tear from his eye. “Thanks for the laugh though. I needed it.”

With that, he speeds up, leaving you in the dust, or more appropriately, snow. No doubt, when you eventually get there, he’ll complain to you about not walking fast enough.

You pause, looking up at the sky, pale and blue, a snowflake here and there sprinkling down towards you, landing in your hair and on your eyelashes.

“Will someone please save me from Luke Castellan?”

The only response you get is Luke yelling back at you, “Hurry up!”

He doesn’t even turn around, just lifts a hand in a lazy wave like he knows you’re glaring holes into the back of his head.

When you finally catch up, slightly out of breath and significantly more murderous, Luke glances over at you, absolutely delighted.

“Are you always this slow?”

“No. I just got distracted by contemplating how I'd fake my death.”

“Tempting, I bet,” he says. “But then who’d make me dinner?”

***

He’s really good.

Media trained to a T, a natural in front of the camera, answering every question with that easy charm that seems to just ooze out of him.

You might need to steal some of that.

The wind tousles his hair, lifting the dark strands just enough to look cinematic. Like he was shot on film, if that makes any sense. You twiddle your fingers as he leans in attentively when the interviewer speaks, nodding along like he actually enjoys this sort of thing.

His laugh carries over the snow and tickles the tips of your ears as he jokes about his Olympic prospects.

“Are you saying that I’m your pick for gold next year?” he asks with a cheeky grin.

The interviewer gives a slightly disconcerting hyena laugh back in response. “Well, I’m not not saying that, but—”

You grumble under your breath, shifting your weight in the snow. The annoyance at seeing him so… beloved has formed a special place in your heart. This ugly, simmering thing that bubbles in your chest whenever you so much as see him happy. At least the hate is keeping you warm, your glare hot enough to melt a neat little crater in the snow beneath your boots.

The interview wraps with handshakes and bright smiles, the crew moving quickly to reset.

Then you hear the director call out, “We’re going to need some b-roll of you walking around.”

Luke nods easily, already stepping away from the cameras and toward you.

You school your expression into something neutral and hold out his gloves and jacket as he approaches, like you’re his human closet. He takes them, fingers brushing yours long enough for that heat to shoot up your body again. You can only wonder if this is going to happen every time you touch him.

“Well, don’t you look happy?” he teases.

The audacity.

“I’m sorry I'm not smiling so hard that it hurts. Maybe it’s because watching you flirt with a camera crew isn’t the best use of my time. I’m your chalet host, keyword being chalet. Why the ever living fuck am I out here helping you lug around equipment?”

He slips on one glove, watching you rile yourself up. He didn't even have to do anything. You're like his own personal form of entertainment. “Jealous?”

“Of the camera?”

“Of all the attention I’m getting.”

“Luke, I’d rather eat snow,” you reply decidedly, and you’d do it too to prove a point.

“That can be arranged.”

Before you can follow up with a “What the fuck did you just say to me?”, the director jogs over, eyes bouncing between the two of you and your petty squabble.

“Actually, this is great. You two know each other, right?” she asks, bright with inspiration, already building the shot in her head.

“No,” you sputter.

“Yes,” Luke says at the exact same time.

She blinks at your conflicting responses but decides not to think about it too hard. “...Okay? We, uh, just need a few shots of Luke, well, being Luke. Walking, talking, laughing—”

“We don’t laugh together,” you cut in.

Luke’s hand lands lightly at the small of your back, steering you forward before you can disappear on him with some vague excuse. “She means we laugh constantly.”

Your spine goes rigid.

The director beams at the pair of you. “Amazing. Just head down the path and pretend we’re not here.”

Pretend they’re not there?

Pretend Luke’s hand isn’t still on you?

Pretend that heat didn't travel up your spine as soon as he touched you?

You totally could do that.

The cameras get in position, and the two of you start walking. You are not a natural on camera. Your face is frozen, and each step you take looks robotic or like you're being held up by strings. Either way it ain't good.

“This is supposed to look natural. You know what that word means, right?” Luke murmurs under his breath, leaning close enough that his shoulder knocks yours. “Try not to look like you want to stab me.”

“I do want to stab you.”

“Yeah, but make it look cute like you normally do.”

You let out a laugh, just a tiny one, before you can stop it. You cannot deny that you do look cute even when making threats, it’s simply the truth. Unfortunately, you can’t fault the man for being honest.

His eyes light up in victory, he’d gotten you to crack. “Just like that. I knew you could do it.”

“Don't patronise me and this doesn’t mean you’ve won.”

“It definitely means I won. I got you on camera cheesing at one of my jokes.”

From behind, the director calls, “This is great! Keep talking!”

You mutter, “If this ends up in an ad, I’m suing. It’s misrepresenting me, making me look like I enjoy your company.”

“You do,” he says quietly. “Deep down.”

You turn to snap back at him, but he’s already looking at you, wind catching in his hair again. In a strange and horrible turn of events, you can’t even think of anything to say back. You’re completely silenced by how dashing he looks in his snowboarding gear.

The second the director goes to check the shots, you look away from him immediately. Not a word passes between the two of you, but you feel restless. You can feel those warm, brown eyes of his scanning you again. Probably thinking of new and inventive ways to torture you.

“Great job! I think we have enough there. Lastly, we just need some shots of you doing what you do best,” she announces.

“Great,” he replies, his voice husky. From the direction of his voice, you can tell he didn’t turn from you, even as the crew moved around him. You don’t know why that makes you feel so… antsy. Like you needed to go and run ten miles just to chase the feeling away.

Then, finally, he steps back.

You watch him walk away, and this time your eyes feel a little less capable of melting snow and more like you’re the one in danger of melting.

You get a moment to breathe and rid those thoughts from your mind as the cameras scramble into position as he gets on the lift up the mountain. You twiddle your thumbs and will yourself to think of anything else. But no matter what, your mind seems to drift back to him.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, just lost in a Luke daydream, when you see him in the distance.

He curves his way down the slopes, like it’s second nature, and you bet it is. It’s one thing watching a highlight reel, but seeing it in person…damn.

You bite at your lip as you try your damnest not to coo over him.

Though… some would call it art what he’s able to do on a snowboard. You might even say so, well, only in your head.

He launches off a small lip, twisting in midair and landing without breaking a sweat.

The director beside you lets out a breathy, “He’s insane.”

You fold your arms tighter, as you look at him, slicing through white powder with the sun at his back, utterly transfixed despite your best efforts. “You have no idea.”

Your heart is even hammering like you just did the run yourself. Your lips part, a little puff of air floating into the sky, like they did the moment you first laid eyes on him. How can someone so awful do something so beautiful?

Luke reaches the bottom and unclips, smiling like he hadn’t just stolen the air straight from your lungs.

The director gives him the ok and he’s basically done for the day. He walks towards you and lifts both arms in a silent ‘well?’

“Were you impressed?” he asks when you don’t take the bait. You sway, your arms wrapped around yourself, feigning nonchalance. It's not like you didn't want to be nice to him, it's simply that your brain would not allow it. And who are you to argue with your brain? It calls all the shots.

“You’re talented or whatever,” you mumble. It’s almost unintelligible, but that is the most your brain will allow. Anything nicer and you'd shut down altogether.

For once, instead of teasing you further, he just laughs, “That’s good enough for me.”

You blink at him like pigs have just taken flight over the mountain.

But naturally, the universe corrects itself immediately.

The second you start to think he’s being almost… pleasant, Luke drops his board into your arms with zero warning, followed by his helmet and gloves for good measure.

You stagger under the sudden weight, struggling to balance everything in your arms. “What the—”

“I have to thank the crew and all that and do some media stuff,” he says breezily, already backing away. “You have to grab the rest of the gear.”

Your eye twitches.

“And,” he adds, pointing a finger at you like a child, “I’m starving, so get started on dinner as soon as you get back.”

There he is.

The devil you know.

You stare at him, burdened with enough equipment to qualify as a pack mule. “Did you just use me as a human coat rack?”

He walks backwards through the snow, with a bright grin, “You’re doing amazing.”

Before you can hurl a helmet at his head, one of the production assistants calls his name, and he jogs toward them.

You stand there, loaded down with his things, seething.

“Unbelievable.”

You should've told him he was shit out there.

***

You’re really good.

Pride fills your heart as you plate what is, objectively, a masterpiece.

Once you cooled off from dealing with Luke all afternoon, you got to work in the kitchen, and dinner looks pretty damn good if you do say so yourself.

Perfectly seared scallops. Buttery potatoes. Roasted vegetables glazed and sparkling under the warm dining lights. Times like these make you wonder why you're not on MasterChef.

You carry the dishes out one by one, setting them in front of Luke and his friends.

“Enjoy.”

At least his friends didn’t hate you or flirt with you. If there were four Lukes at this table, you’d simply pass away on the spot.

Chris whistles low, taking in the visual delight you've laid out in front of them. “Damn. You made all this?”

“Yes,” you say, trying not to sound too smug, but it comes through anyway.

Luke leans back in his chair, looking between the plate and you with exaggerated suspicion. “You’re trying to poison me, aren’t you?”

“If I were, you’d already be dead.”

A chorus of laughs spreads around the room, much to his chagrin. You start cracking open the crab legs at the table, keeping an eye on his reaction to your food.

He picks up his fork and takes a bite. You hate yourself a little for watching so closely. Even though you hate the man, you still wanted him to like it.

“That’s really good,” he admits, his eyes fluttering closed for a second. From that alone, you knew it really hit the spot.

A self-satisfied smirk works its way onto your face.

“I might just have to take you home with me,” he adds flippantly.

What?

The crab leg soars from your carving fork straight into his face. It even makes a distinct smacking sound. A sound that will haunt your dreams.

There’s a stunned silence as it bounces off his cheek and lands in his lap.

Your soul leaves your body.

“I’m—” you choke on air. “That was an accident.”

He stares at you as the butter sauce slowly slides down his jaw. Yet another image you will never get out of your head. “You hit me with a crab leg.”

“Accidentally. And I know you don't think that but it was a genuine mistake. I swear on like everything.”

Luke wipes his face with a napkin, eyes locked on you, like he's about to curse you and your family for generations to come.

“Good to know, that you resort to violence when complimented.”

“That was not a compliment,” you shoot back, mortified.

The one time he decides to say something nice to you, this happens. Must be a sign. “I didn't mean anything bad by it. I just meant that you're talented.”

“Talented?”

“Until you hit me with a crab leg, that is.”

You open your mouth but seeing the way he's death gripping his fork makes you think otherwise. You'd argue later, it's not even a question at this point. When he’d cooled off and forgotten how it felt to be slapped by a crab. Or since it was a crab leg… kicked?

“I’m just gonna…”

You gesture behind you, already taking steps back to make a strategic retreat.

“I think that's best.”

You walk away briskly, determined to disappear but not before throwing out a quick, “Enjoy your crab!”

***

The next few days, he's intent on making your life just that little bit more difficult.

It starts small.

A text asking for protein bars.

Then, as soon as you get back, he sends you back out again because, apparently, you bought the wrong brand. Then again, because he “forgot” to mention he also needs electrolyte packets, fancy coffee beans, and some absurdly specific face wash that can apparently only be found in one overpriced boutique in town.

He’s a little nightmare.

Always complaining you forgot something, even though he absolutely did not ask for it the first time, and even leaving passive-aggressive little notes on the fridge like:

You forgot the almond milk… again.

and

Athletes need snacks. Are you trying to starve me? ಠ⁠︵⁠ಠ

You'd rip the sticky notes off one by one, even taking special care to rip up the ones with those stupid little faces he'd draw.

All over a stupid crab leg.

“You are actually insane!” you shout, trudging back into the chalet with three shopping bags cutting into your fingers and snow melting into your socks.

Luke is in the kitchen when you stomp in, perched on the counter like a smug housecat, casually eating the expensive trail mix he specifically made you go buy.

“Did you buy dark chocolate?”

You stare at him and grit your teeth, “You did not ask for dark chocolate.”

Then, very deliberately, drop the bags onto the floor with a violent thud.

“I must have forgotten to tell you, my bad. You need to go get it.”

“You sent me across the town for a face wash. I had to take two buses and walk for twenty minutes through the snow, and now you want me to get chocolate? I’m going to kill you and it will not be swift nor will it be painless. I can promise you that, Luke.”

“It’s winter. My skin gets dry.”

“You are a professional athlete, not a Victorian lady.”

“Victorian ladies didn’t have brand deals, did they? I need to look good and if I need you to help me do that, then so be it, right?”

There’s no use arguing with the man, so you leave the kitchen in a huff. If you knew this was going to happen, you would’ve hit him with more than just a crab leg.

The morning ends with you feeling like you’ve had a ton of bricks thrown at you but it’s over. And finally, after all being put through the wringer, you were ready to do what you came here to do.

Snowboarding.

You’re suited up in borrowed confidence and waterproof gear that makes you look like a marshmallow, but… snowboarding is absolutely not as easy as it looks.

You knew you’d be falling most of the day, but this was hell. You're not quite sure if you've ever fallen this much in your entire life. Golden Ridge offers free lessons, which you took in stride during your first few weeks here.

All that progress has been thrown out the window.

You hit the snow again with a muffled oof, but tell yourself it’s character development. Surely you’ll be better off in the end.

When you flop onto the ground for what must be the millionth time, face down in the snow and mortified, you hear the soft crunch of boots behind you, and a familiar voice, just as annoying as ever.

“You alright down there? Thought I saw my favourite employee face-plant.”

“I’m off the clock,” you grumble into the snow. “Leave me alone.”

You turn your head and see him looking down at you with a smirk. His face looks like that so often that it is truly a wonder it hasn’t gotten stuck like that.

“Ah. Free to call me a dick without repercussions, I see.”

“I’ll call you a dick regardless of the repercussions.”

He laughs outright, crouching beside you, and offers a hand. As soon as you see it, you know you're not taking it. You'd never give him the satisfaction, in fact, you might just stay on the ground until the sun sets. That's how much you're willing to dig your heels in about this.

“Need help?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Yup. The day I accept help from the likes of you is the day a snake can tap dance.”

You try to stand, and immediately fall over again. Maybe you should just stay down here, melt into nonexistence.

“Looks like Bambi needs some help.”

Your head snaps up.

What did he just—?

“Call me that again, and you’ll need help. From an ambulance.”

“Is that a threat? You’ve been getting awfully comfortable insulting me.”

You unclip your board and stand to full height. “You have made it perfectly clear that you’re intent on being an asshole to me, so what’s the use? This is our dynamic now.”

“If that's how it's going to be. Fine.”

***

A series of failed attempts has you feeling like you've been tossed down a flight of stairs. But progress is being made, little by little. In the past twenty minutes, you've only fallen three times. A vast improvement in your eyes.

Though as you take in a deep breath of the cool air with a sense of accomplishment, you see him approaching.

How dare he look all cool on his snowboard?

He finishes up his run with a flawless landing, a spray of snow at you just to be a dick.

As soon as it happens, you march up to him before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Trying to impress me?” you snap, interrupting his laughing with his friends. “Or piss me off?”

He takes off his goggles, snow-damp curls falling into his eyes, and you have to resist the urge to stare.

Guys like him can't be cute and talented. Pick one.

“Oh, please, as if I need to try.”

“Right, right. You're Luke Castellan, snowboarder extraordinaire.”

“You're saying it as if it's not true. How many gold medals do you have again?” he teases, grinning like he knows exactly how annoying he is.

“So you can do spinny things on a board, who cares?” you shrug, unimpressed.

“Spinny things?”

“You know what I mean. Flips and shit.”

“Flips and shit. Well put.”

Titling up your chin at him, in what can only be described as an act of hubris, you say, “I could do what you do.”

“Is that right?” He chuckles, indulging you. He finds it makes this more fun when he does.

“I’ll go on that big slope over there. No problem,” you comment flippantly, standing a little taller than usual.

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me.”

***

A few minutes later, you’re on the ski lift, absolutely bricking it.

The seat jerks beneath you as it carries you higher, the mountain opening up below in an endless spread of white and pine. Cold wind cuts across your face, and Luke is entirely too relaxed beside you, like he can feel the anxiety coming off of you in waves.

He stretches his arm along the back of the lift seat behind you, close enough to feel without technically touching.

“You shouldn’t be on this hill, you know?” he says casually.

He glances down at the slope below, then back at you, quite literally shaking in your boots. “This run’s a little advanced for… whatever it is you’ve been doing down there.”

“Whatever it is I’ve been doing?”

“Oh, you want me to say it? You’ve been falling over…a lot. Listen, you can take the lift back down—”

“No, no. I got this,” you say quickly, waving him off the second the lift slows. “Snowboarding isn’t as hard as it seems. I won’t die or anything.”

Famous last words.

The ski lift jerks to a stop, and you waddle off the chair, shuffle toward the top of the run and feel your stomach immediately drop.

The slope stretches below you in a terrifying sheet of white, far steeper than it had looked from the bottom.

This is going to lead to your untimely doom. You can see your gravestone now.

“Died trying to prove a point.”

“This was a mistake,” you mutter to yourself.

Were you really going to end up killing yourself over him?

You crouch down, reaching for your binding to unclip your front foot—

And then a gust of wind whips across the ridge, and your body follows it.

You go shooting down the mountain, panic taking over as your life flashes before your eyes. You scream out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Luke!”

He moves fast like a shadow over water.

One second, you’re careening downhill, the next his arms are wrapped around you, turning his body so he takes the impact, shielding you from the ground as you hit the snow hard.

“Fuck!” you groan, breath knocked clean out of you.

You blink repeatedly to make sure you haven't died.

You roll over and see Luke underneath you. Eyebrows scrunched up as he adjusts himself on the ground, his hands still firmly around you. The brown flecks in his eyes catch the light as he looks at you.

Were they always that brown?

“Are you going to lie on me all day?” he asks, breathless.

You smack his chest, though you doubt he feels it through the padding of his jacket. “Shut up.”

“What did I do? You’re the one using me as your futon,” he chuckles.

He shifts, sitting up slowly, and winces, just a little. It's small, but you catch it.

“Are you okay?” you ask, suddenly serious.

“I’m good.”

He’s lying, you can tell. Why he’d want to protect your feelings, you have no idea.

“Thank you for saving me.”

You mean it. He might be the worst, but he did swoop in to save you without hesitation.

He pokes you playfully in the side. “Stay on the bunny hill… Bambi.”

***

The next day, he hasn’t called on you. Not bothered or pestered, which is something he really is quite good at. He’d have a career in it if he weren’t already such an established snowboarder.

It’s unnatural or unnerving might be more accurate. Like watching a horror movie and expecting a jumpscare only for it to never come.

You cooked breakfast, and he didn't show up. His friends went out snowboarding, and he didn't join them.

So when you went back to the main resort, you were on autopilot, and Bridget noticed.

“You still with us?”

“He’s alright… right?”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about? And here I thought you hated him.”

“I do!” you reply in an instant. “Just because I hate the man doesn’t mean I wish him bodily harm. Or at least not too much harm. Just a simple smack on the head or occasional stubbed toe would suffice.”

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you go back and see him? I’m sure he’ll be glad to see a pretty face.”

She squeezes your cheek, like a grandma would, with a cheeky little smile.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Just go!”

***

The boys are still out on the slopes.

You step into the chalet, shrugging off your jacket and gloves, the sudden quiet almost jarring.

You’re so used to the noise by now. Raucous laughter echoing through the halls, music coming from someone’s speaker, Chris inevitably sprawled in front of the TV with a controller in hand while Luke yells at him for losing.

But now?

Nothing.

Just the faint crackle of the main fireplace and the creak of settling wood.

You round the corner toward the kitchen, and there he is.

The pain in your ass that’s been evading you all day and yet somehow still occupying far too much of your brain.

Luke.

He’s standing at the kitchen counter, shirtless, head tipped back as he gulps water straight from the bottle. One swallow after another, throat bobbing, a stray drop escaping and sliding down the length of his neck.

You’re this close to passing out.

Noticing your awkward presence, lurking at the edge of the kitchen, he turns toward you, and you brace yourself for whatever horrific injury has been keeping him cooped up in the chalet.

Then you blink.

“A pinky cast?”

That is… not what you were expecting.

At all.

In fact, it kind of pisses you off.

You’ve been worrying up and down about him all day, wondering if he broke a wrist, twisted his ankle or cracked a rib, and it’s only his fucking pinky?

Luke glances at the tiny cast like he forgot it existed. “And a dislocated shoulder,” he adds, rolling the other one experimentally. “But that’ll set back in a few hours.”

“A pinky and a shoulder?”

“Mm.”

“That’s what’s been keeping you inside?”

He lowers the water bottle slowly, already catching your tone. “You sound disappointed.”

Disappointed? That’s not the half of it.

“I was worried sick about you! I thought that you got injured and then you wouldn't be able to compete anymore, and I would've ruined your whole career—’

“Worried sick?” he interrupts, ”Strong words for someone who hates me.”

“I still hate you, in fact, I might hate you even more because of that stupid pinky cast!”

You cross the room, then smack his arm, and he winces. A pang of worry shoots through you as you pause in legitimate concern.

Which shoulder did he dislocate again?

Before you can descend into a flurry of apologies, he snaps out of his faux hurt with a cheeky grin. He had you. “Aww, you care so much about me—”

“Fuck you, I'm leaving.”

You storm out of the room and out of the chalet entirely, and he follows after you, keeping up with you with long strides.

He stops at the front door, opening it wider, calling out as he watches your pissed-off form retreat into the snow.

“Wait up, you don't wanna sign the cast?”

And you answer with a middle finger.

Customer service at its finest.

The rest of Luke’s afternoon is spent out on the slopes with his friends, screwing around despite the doctor saying to lay off.

But his mind keeps drifting.

Back to you.

If he was being honest, ever since the breakup, he’s been… off. Less focused. More restless. Like he’s constantly trying to outrun something sitting just behind his ribs.

And then you showed up.

Annoying, sharp and immune to his usual charm.

Weird.

“She’s weird,” he says, shaking snow out of his hair as they unclip their boards near the lift.

“The chalet girl? Weird how?” Chris asks.

Luke shrugs, “Just… weird.”

Which is unhelpful, and he knows it.

Weird how you don’t fawn over him. Weird how you argue back. Weird how you look at him like you’re trying to figure him out instead of impressing him.

Weird how he notices when you’re not around.

Chris smirks at him and his far-off expression. It can only mean one thing. “You like her.”

Luke scoffs immediately at the thought. Him like you? Perhaps he liked to bother you, but that was the extent of it. “We’ve known her for what? A few weeks?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “And you’ve talked about her at least twelve times today.”

“That’s not—That’s not true,” Luke sputters out with a frown, knowing damn well he’s brought up how stupid you looked, face-planting all over the mountain.

In the background, Connor snorts, “It’s absolutely true.”

Luke flips him off, but there’s no heat behind it.

Chris grins wider, “You should invite her to the party tonight.”

Luke hesitates, biting his lip as he looks down at his hands. Which, frankly, answers the question for everyone.

“Holy shit, you’re nervous,” Travis chimes.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re thinking,” Chris corrects. “Which is worse.”

Luke exhales through his nose, gaze drifting down the mountain toward the chalet.

Toward you.

“…She’ll probably say no,” he mutters.

***

You're lying down on your bed, feeling stupid that you cared so much. They went out for dinner that night, so you were free! No cooking, no dishes and no verbal sparring with Luke.

You feel the life seep back into your body as you slip into your bed, in the cosiest pyjamas you packed.

This was the dream.

Now you're perfectly content and ready to drift off with a stomach full of snacks and a cheesy romcom playing in the background.

The only thing you’re missing is a bottle of wine.

Peace can only last so long, though. With a buzz, your hand stills on your laptop’s trackpad. You fumble for your phone, hidden beneath your pillows.

The notification ruins your mood in an instant. It was the Devil's spawn himself with a one-word text.

Luke: “Bambi.” 7:45 PM

You type out a response, careful not to get so mad that you put a hole through the screen.

“I’m not working right now, so leave me alone.” 7:45 PM

You pat yourself on the back for your response. Short, sweet (well, sweeter than what you were thinking), and calm.

Luke: “I'm having a party tonight. You should stop by.” 7:46 PM

“I already have plans.” 7:46 PM

You wait for a response, nervously glancing between your laptop and your phone. It's not a lie. You do have plans. They just feature you, popcorn and all the romcom goodness you can possibly muster.

Luke: “What plans?” 7:48 PM

“I’m going out tonight.” 7:48 PM

Perhaps that would get him off your back. You sit up straighter, the situation already getting you a little on edge. He doesn't text back for a while, and what was supposed to be a relaxing night is ruined. The whole time, you watch your phone as you wait, the scroll you were about to do through movie after movie is put on hold for now.

Did he believe your story? Or was he trying to come up with a way to convince you to ditch your “plans”? Or the better question: since when do you care what he thinks?

Luke: Your roommate begs to differ. 7:52 PM

Your phone drops from your hands into your lap.

Betrayal of the highest order.

You spring up out of bed and storm over to Bridget’s room, murder on your mind. Or at the very least a stern talking to.

The door flies open, and you're met with Bridget's nervous smile.

“What the fuck?”

She fumbles over her words for a moment before coming out with, “I’m sorry, he's very convincing.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“That you were home, watching a movie in your Hello Kitty pyjamas.”

You pick up one of her pillows and smack her with it before she can dive for cover.

“Seriously? And why did you tell him about my pyjamas? That's so unnecessary!”

“I'm sorry. I got nervous. I mean, he is Luke Castellan.”

She shuffles to the edge of her bed and stands up, making her way over to you. However, she does maintain a safe distance, like you're a wild animal capable of striking at any moment.

“But I only told him what you were really up to because he invited you to a party and you said no. Are you insane?”

“Bridget, I'm not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I'm. Not.”

“Why not?”

You throw your hands up as if it should be obvious. “I get enough of Luke all day, every day. I deserve to be left alone for one night. Actually, why don't you go in my place?”

“I would but…”

She twiddles her fingers coyly.

“But?”

“Ski-lift guy is coming over.”

Shaking your head, you let out a sigh. Of course, she'd do this to you. Still maintaining a safe distance, she goes through her closet and pulls out something.

Before you can question her, she hands it to you with a smile, screaming, forgive me.

“You can borrow this tonight.”

“I said, I'm not—”

“You'd look good on it. And maybe you can let loose, go pursue that ski romance.”

“I'm not going. End of story.”

***

Long story short, you end up at the party. Bridget's tactics included crying, begging, and even a little blackmail.

So, unless you wanted a picture of you in your Hello Kitty PJs sent straight to Luke, you had to go to this stupid ass party, in his stupid ass chalet, in these stupid ass clothes Bridget lent you.

Though you did have to admit, you were kind of a vision in blue.

Even before you walk up, you can hear the party from a mile away. And the second you see the chalet, it’s livelier than you’ve ever seen it. The party spilt out of the house with a few stragglers chatting by the door, which is brave in these temperatures. People out here are built different, you suppose.

You wade through the crowd and make it inside, looking around for your tormentor, thinking maybe if you showed your face, he’d let you disappear.

“You made it.”

Your head swivels around, and Luke’s there. Unfortunately, he found you before you could find him and somehow, over the blaring music and the millions of conversations happening all around you, you heard his voice loud and clear.

Or rather, you felt it. The warm tone of his voice is like fingers running up and down your spine before settling in the small of your back.

You hate how your body would react to him. Whether it was a touch or his voice, it threw you out of sorts.

“Hello,” you say simply, taking in the surroundings, like a lost bird. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re a little more dressed up than you usually are or the fact that it’s so damn loud i here, but you can’t seem to focus on anything.

“No Hello Kitty PJs? Such a shame, I was looking forward to seeing them,” he teases.

You shove him lightly and grumble at him, the nervousness seeming to fade in an instant. “I’d sooner kill you than be in my pyjamas in front of you, freak.”

“There’s the little smartass I’ve been missing. Come on, let’s get some drinks.”

***

“You’re such a frat-boy,” you comment as you watch him play beer pong. You’ve been standing here for a good four minutes, watching him chop it up with his boys as he plays, chirping them when they miss, the little (slutty) gold chain around his neck glinting under the lights.

Total frat boy behaviour.

“Gamma Phi Theta, treasurer,” he smirks, confirming your suspicions before taking another swig from his water bottle.

“Treasurer?” you question. “I would’ve thought you’d want to be running the show.”

“Busy winning championships to be doing all that. Plus, the treasurer controls the money.”

He glances at you sideways, “And therefore has all the power.”

He throws another ball, sinking it into his opponent’s cup with ease.

“But I thought the president gets all the girls.”

He looks over at you for a split second, just out of the corner of his eye, then cracks a small smile. “Already had one at the time.”

One of Luke’s cups gets sunk. He picks it up and drinks, never breaking eye contact with you.

And all you can think is, “What the fuck is his problem?”

“Come here,” he says quietly. “I wanna show you something.”

He slips past his friend’s shoulder on the way out, tossing over his shoulder, “Sub in for me, yeah?”

He leads you out to the balcony, and the door closes behind you both. Suddenly, it’s just the two of you. No crowd or noise to distract from all this tension.

A few quiet moments pass, and you’re buzzing in anticipation. Wondering if he'll make the first move or you.

“I know all the constellations,” Luke says, looking thoughtfully up at the stars.

If you hadn't met him before tonight, this would've worked on you.

But he wrote on your forehead, and the North never forgets.

“Is this what you do?” you scoff. “Chat a girl up, then take her out to see the stars? Name all the constellations, maybe even make one up to name after her?”

“Is that what you fantasise about?” he asks, turning his head toward you.

“Shut up.”

“No, no. I’m happy to indulge your fantasies. Do you want me to start naming them?”

He was having entirely too much fun delighting in your embarrassment.

“Shut up!”

You huff, turning away, looking out over the balcony at the rear of the chalet, the music from the party behind you muffled by the cold night air.

You shiver a little, and before you can comment on how cold it is out here, he’s already moving. Wordlessly, he slips off his jumper and pulls it over your head.

“I didn’t need it,” you huff out, even though you definitely did. You were about to turn into an icicle without it.

He gives you a knowing smile, crossing his now bare arms. And although you’d never admit it, your eyes linger on his arms a second longer than necessary.

Can’t blame a girl for appreciating nice biceps.

“Sure, you didn’t,” he replies in a way that makes you nibble at your bottom lip.

The two of you stand there for a moment, quiet and too close for your mind to shut up about it.

He was public enemy number one! Why didn't your heart seem to know that?

“So…” you say, voice softer now, eyes flicking from him to the sky above. Just because you made fun of his little routine doesn’t mean you wouldn’t let him do it.

It’s purely for entertainment purposes. Obviously.

“So?”

“Point out the constellations to me.”

He doesn't hesitate.

“You see the North Star?”

Your eyes scan the sky, and it all looks the same to you. Not that you can focus anyway.

“No.”

You feel his hands hovering over your shoulders before he asks, and you know you’re going to say yes.

“May I?”

You nod, and he steps in behind you, gently guiding you into position. You feel the heat of his chest at your back, the light brush of his chin near your temple.

Carefully, his fingers travel up your arm to point at the star; the movement sends a quiet shiver through you.

“—and if you connect it to that star, you’ll see Orion,” he says, voice full of wonder, guiding your arm to connect the dots with him. “Next to that is Taurus, here, I’ll show you.”

He keeps talking, explaining paths and patterns. You can’t see his face, but you can feel him, every breath, every little shift of his body.

It’s infuriating.

It’s…

“Beautiful,” you whisper, genuinely in awe.

“One of the few things that we get to sleep under every night but somehow still manage to miss.”

“Why do you know so much about this stuff?” you ask quietly.

“My mom…” he starts, then falters. “She used to bring me out to my treehouse and show me all the constellations. Told me all the stories behind them.”

He pauses, a deep breath leaving his lungs. “It’s… hard to forget things like that.”

You hadn’t heard him talk like that ever.

In your little Luke Castellan deep dive, you noticed it before, how he never really talked about his family in interviews.

Deflecting anything and everything related to his parents like a media-trained dog.

But this is real. Might be one of the first real things you've learnt about him.

You glance back at him thoughtfully as if parsing through the responses in your brain. “She sounds like she’s pretty special.”

“Yeah. She was.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s something you can’t fully explain at the moment, probably due to the soft, tingly buzz of alcohol that was starting to take hold.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the soft chill of the air still penetrating your shirt. You glance at him, just standing there in his tank top, all broad shoulders and muscle, looking unfairly like a Greek god, but you digress.

“Aren’t you cold?” you ask.

“Occupational hazard.”

You scoff at his nonchalance. “That’s not an answer.”

He smiles, small and genuine this time. “I’m used to it.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache just a little. You step closer without thinking, tugging the jumper tighter around yourself.

“Well,” you mutter, “I don’t have your superhuman tolerance.”

“Good thing I do. Otherwise, you, Bambi, would be an icicle.”

“Oh, please, it's not that cold.”

“So, do you want me to take my jumper back—?” He reaches towards you, and you turn away from his hands, snuggling into the fabric more.

“No, no, I didn't say that. Just…”

You turn back around slowly, his hands now safely far away from the only thing keeping you cosy.

“Shut up,” you finish, not quite having had enough time to think of a clever response.

Instead, you set your eyes back up at the night sky; maybe they could help you out a bit.

“So did it work?” he asks, interrupting your conversation with the moon. You pretend to yourself for a moment, theatrically stroking your chin, which did get a small chuckle out of him.

“Not quite. You forgot to name a constellation after me,” you tease.

“That would be if I were trying to hook up with you.”

“So you’re not trying to hook up with me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then what are you doing?”

The space between you is palpable. It’s freezing outside, but your body feels hot, like you’ve been standing too close to a furnace. He’s too close again, crowding you without touching. You find yourself thinking only of him, of what’s going on behind those pretty brown eyes.

He looks away for half a second, like he’s reconsidering, then his gaze snaps back to yours.

“I’m trying to do to you what you’ve been doing to me.”

“And what have I been doing to you?”

He leans in, just close enough for your lips to start to tingle.

“Driving me crazy.”

“I, uh…”

He’s done it. After all this time of putting you through the wringer, he’s finally rendered you speechless. You’re standing outside, but somehow it doesn’t feel like there’s enough air.

“I need to…” You gesture vaguely behind you, and he doesn’t stop you, instead giving you a smile that says, “Be my guest”.

“I’ll see you around, Bambi.”

You don’t trust yourself to respond right away. At this point, there’s no telling what you’d do.

Instead, you turn to walk back inside, still wearing his jumper, pulse racing. But just before you cross the threshold from your private world on the balcony back to the party, under your breath, you mutter, “I told you not to call me that.”

As soon as you re-enter the chalet, it feels like you’ve just come back from an out-of-body experience, but also like you left something important out on that balcony under the stars.

You couldn't think anymore.

You didn’t want to.

So what else should you do but drink?

***

Okay, maybe you shouldn’t drink.

You’re a lightweight. This has been well documented. The staff party from when you first arrived had you crying under a table, holding a bottle of tequila to your chest like it’s the One Ring.

And yet, here you are.

Singing on a coffee table, one foot dangerously close to a spilt drink, job be damned.

“And another thing,” you slur, pointing dramatically across the room, “Luke Castellan is—”

“Oh no,” he mutters from below, already rubbing his face.

“—such a dick,” you finish triumphantly. “So fucking smug, you wouldn't believe. He made me trek all the way to fucking—I don’t even know where for face cream! Total ass— hic asshole, I’ll tell you that for free.”

There’s laughter around you as you start to recount other Luke incidents. “Get me more protein bars should be the name of his memoir, the little rat—”

Luke sighs, then steps forward because as much as he enjoys your little comedy routine, he knows he needs to get you home.

“You’ve had enough. I think it’s time we get you to bed.”

“How. Rude. I was telling a story.”

“I mean it.”

“Fine then… catch me!”

Before he can stop you, you leap off the table straight into his arms. He barely stumbles as his arms lock around you. Drunk you likes that very much.

“I’m lucky you’re so strong,” you mumble, far too close to his neck.

“You’re impossible.”

You tug at the new jumper he’d just put on, frowning dramatically. “No!”

“What's wrong?” he asks at the whine you just let out. You sounded like you just lost your dog.

“It’s a shame you put this on. I miss your biceps.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No way! I didn't notice, Sherlock,” you snip back. With a solemn groan, you lean against him like he's the only thing keeping you together, which he probably is. You're about as stable as a house of cards right now. “Mr Deductive Reasoning thinks I'm drunk. Smartest guy in the world.”

You were giving him emotional whiplash. Complimenting his biceps one second, insulting him the next.

He carefully adjusts his grip as he carries you away. “Tell me all about it tomorrow.”

The two of you make the long and harrowing journey back to staff housing, harrowing only because you are involved.

After insisting, very loudly, that you can walk on your own, you wiggle out of Luke’s arms and immediately start stumbling around.

Not the best idea your drunken brain could’ve come up with. You’re officially a liability.

You’ve fallen over at least fifty times tonight, and you’ve been getting distracted every five seconds, attempting cartwheels, and now actively trying to climb a tree.

“Aha! Nature's ladder,” you announce, before running and attaching yourself to the bark like a spider.

“You can’t climb a tree like this,” Luke admonishes, hands on his hips like a disappointed dad.

“I can do anything!” you proclaim as you almost immediately lose your footing. Luke jolts forward and catches you by the waist without even thinking.

You blink up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, before a mischievous little grin finds its way onto your face.

Luke was not as amused.

“Aww,” you grin up at him. “Lukey cares about little ol’ me.”

He crouches down and says, very impatiently, “Get on my back, hurry up.”

“Nuh-uh. Today’s my day off, buddy,” you shoot back, though you don’t move.“You don't get to order me around.”

“Either you get on my back, or I drag you behind me.”

In even your drunken state, you know you should take his threats seriously.

Even in this state, you didn’t particularly want to test him too much, so you flop onto his back, while still giving him the appropriate level of sass. As he stands to full height, you slap his shoulder lightly.

“Onward, steed!” you yell.

“I’m not your horse,” he protests, though already moving forward.

“Don't drop me, you dick!” you yell as you jostle a little on his back.

“You call me a dick more than my actual name.”

“Both 4-letter words.”

***

Bridget's up late, humming as she retrieves the cookie dough she made from the fridge. The ski-lift guy has left her in good spirits, that's for sure. What’ll one scoop hurt? Or maybe two? Or three? Or—?

She’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening, followed by you complaining about something. Or at least she assumes you’re complaining, but it’s all a drunken, garbled mess by the time it comes out of your mouth.

And who is carrying you but—

“Luke Castellan,” Bridget gasps, dropping her phone. “You’re Luke Castellan and… you’re carrying my roommate home? What happened to her?”

“She got carried away taking shots. She's completely drunk off her ass.”

“Shut up, I'm so not drunk. I’m like…tipsy or…”

Hiccup.

“Can you get me some water?” Luke says, ignoring you and your inability to finish a sentence.

“Yeah, of course!”

Bridget throws open the fridge, bypassing the cookie dough and handing him a water bottle.

“Where’s her room?”

“First door on the right.”

He walks there and dumps her on the bed. Not the softest landing at all, but he makes up for it by being so gentle in taking off her shoes.

“Look at you being all sweet. I didn't know you could do that.”

Though you had to admit, it suited him.

“I just don’t want you to get your wet shoes on your bed.”

He’s careful in the way he touches you, even brushing little bits of debris from your tree-climbing attempts out of your hair.

Then afterwards, you dare to lie in bed, all tucked in and satisfied like the cat that got the cream, not thinking about the hangover that's going to kick your ass tomorrow.

“Y’know, I thought you were a dick when we first met.”

“And now?”

“You’re still a dick. But now I know you know about the stars and shit.” You gesture vaguely upward, nearly smacking yourself in the face. “Pretty cool stuff, Lukey.”

“You better not start calling me that.”

“Revenge is sweet.”

Your eyes slip shut. You've gotten to the phase where you're too drunk to keep your eyes open.

“Enjoy your revenge,” Luke muses, patting your head. He thought you almost looked cute like this, so soft and—

Hell no. Now he knows he has to go.

As he stands up, you reach out, sitting up a little too fast for how drunk you are, and grab his jumper.

“Almost…”

Hiccup.

“Don't want you to leave.”

There’s no way you’ll let him leave alive, if the death grip you had on his jumper was any indication.

“How about this? I'll stay until you fall asleep.”

You give him a bright smile, settling back into your covers. You relinquished your hold on his jumper when he sat down next to you, but only because you were trying to get the real prize…his hand.

Your hand slips into his, tracing along each ridge and curve as you start to let your body relax.

“Good,” you mumble, having no idea what you’ve just done to him.

***

You have been forsaken.

This is a hangover from hell.

Your head is ringing so bad, it’s like you can hear your thoughts from another life.

The door swings open to reveal Bridget ready to take care of your hangover.

You mumble something vaguely human, a soft thank you, before pressing your face deeper into the pillow.

“Yeah, that’s about what you sounded like last night too,” Bridget sighs.

You crack one eye open just enough to glare at her. “Water,” you croak, reaching blindly. She places the bottle into your hand like she’s done this a hundred times before. “What happened to me?”

“Well, all I know is that Luke Castellan brought you home last night. Quite literally carrying you.”

“Ugh,” you groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Please stop saying his full name. We don’t know any other Lukes.”

“But he’s Luke—”

“I know!”

The memory hits in fragments. Standing on tables, trying to climb trees, your head resting on his shoulder as you nuzzle into his cologne.

He'll never let you live this down.

Begrudgingly, the hangover finally starting to subside, you make your way over to his chalet.

It’s around two in the afternoon when you reach his door and knock.

Nothing.

You hesitate, then try the handle. It opens easily.

“Luke?”

As you step inside, you're pleasantly surprised. It looks like there was never a party last night. Everything’s spotless, and you’re just thankful you weren’t on cleanup duty.

You wander through the chalet, curiosity getting the better of you as you slide open the back doors, and immediately lose your mind.

Luke is sitting in the hot tub, head tilted back, eyes closed. Water runs lazily down his neck, catching on his collarbone, his arms resting along the edge, muscles relaxed and infuriatingly perfect.

Steam curls into the cold air off his body like the world is telling you how hot he is.

If you had pearls, you’d be clutching them.

You clear your throat far too loudly.

He startles slightly, then opens his eyes, and a slow grin spreads across his face. It makes you feel uncharacteristically nervous to have him looking at you like this. Maybe the constellation talk did do a number on you…or maybe it’s body. But it’s definitely one of the two.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks casually.

You snap your gaze upward like you’ve been burned. “I—absolutely not.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You plant your hands on your hips, trying very hard not to notice the way water drips down his arms. “You left your door open.”

“And yet,” he says, settling back again, “you stayed.”

“It's my job.”

He notices the less-than-perky look on your face. “So is little Bambi over her hangover?”

“Don't patronise me.”

Ah, there was the Luke you loved to hate.

“Jump in. Take a load off.”

“...you're kidding.”

“Is it illegal to spend some time with me in a hot tub?” he asks sweetly. You're surprised he isn't fluttering his eyelashes at you.

You did have to admit, it looks inviting. He’s sitting there, hair curly and slightly damp. There's even a fire in his eyes as he looks you up and down.

“Not illegal, but I'm not supposed to “fraternise with the guests” like this. I could lose my job, Castellan.”

“Willing to risk it?”

“Even if I were, I don't have a swimsuit. And before you suggest it, I would never get undressed in front of you.”

“I wasn't going to ask you to do that. I'm a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes hard. “A gentleman. Sure.”

“Just climb in with your clothes on.”

You look between him and the water.

“You're kidding.”

Maybe it's the hangover that’s making you feel weak.

Damn him. Damn the cold. Damn, the way your muscles creak with every second you hesitate.

You kick off your boots and lower yourself in, biting back a sound as the heat sinks into you, loosening everything all at once. The relief is immediate, traitorous. Though you could do without the sensory nightmare that is your shirt clinging to your skin.

Grin and bear it.

Luke watches you with open amusement. “See? Doctor Castellan prescribes hydrotherapy.”

“Don’t get smug,” you mutter, sinking back until the water laps at your shoulders. “I’m still on duty.”

You sit still, stewing in embarrassment.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It is, I didn't think you'd actually do it.”

The annoyance reaches its height when he tells you that.

“Then why did you tell me to?” you frown, your head snapping towards him.

“To see how good you are at following orders and you passed with flying colours,” he remarks, as he threads his fingers through the water.

He deserves to drown for that.

“You’re such an asshole!”

You keep trying to get water in his eyes with a burning passion.

“Hey—hey!” Luke splutters, laughter breaking through his protests as he shields his face. “That’s assault. On a national treasure, mind you.”

“National treasure, my ass,” you scoff. That kind of self-absorption deserves to be punished. You splash him again, not giving up until he relents.

He yelps, then retaliates, water sloshing over the edge as the hot tub becomes a battlefield. “Okay—okay, truce!” he laughs. “Damn, you’re vicious.”

You settle down and cross your arms, “You started it.”

“Fair,” he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender, still smiling like he’s won something anyway.

He runs his hands through his hair, and you almost lose it.

You close your eyes, taking deep, clarifying breaths. You know you hate him. It’s a fact, but seeing him like that, running his fingers through his hair like a fucking model, almost makes you want to reconsider.

“I’m going to kill you,” you mutter under your breath.

“What did I do now?”

“You exist. That's enough to piss me off.”

He's attractive, but that's it.

You just needed to remind yourself of that.

The sound of the hot tub bubbling takes over, and a truce is formed. Though you can see him dying to ask you something.

“What is it?”

“What brought you to Golden Ridge?”

“It's been how many weeks, and now you're deciding to ask?”

“Indulge me.”

You let out a sigh, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub.

“Thought it would be fun. I'd get to live somewhere new and earn money. The cooking side of things seemed cool, and I don't know…”

There's something more, but you trail off.

“What else?” He asks, shifting closer to you.

“I don’t want to give you more ammo.”

“I won’t make fun of you over whatever it is you say next,” he says, immediately poking you in the side. “I have plenty of other things to make fun of you for.”

You elbow him away and take a deep, clarifying breath, bracing yourself. “I’m here partially to meet someone,” you wince, already regretting this, “a ski romance sounded… fun.”

“More like unrealistic.”

He dismisses it instantly, no laughter, but somehow that almost stings more.

“Fuck off and let me dream.”

“I’m having trouble connecting the dots.” Then, he adds, curious despite himself, “Why here exactly?”

You gesture vaguely at the mountains, the snow-lit resting. “It’s romantic! The cold, the chalets, the whole thing. They’ll whisk me away and stuff.”

“Oh, really? And have you managed to find this mystery person to whisk you away?”

“Don’t piss me off.”

Luke tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy. “What book did you read that in?”

You scowl at him, not appreciating his tone. You wouldn't expect the likes of him to understand anyway. “Several books… and movies, but honestly, it's none of your business.”

He leans back, arms stretched along the rim of the tub, eyes flicking up to the sky.

“You know, romance is usually better when you’re not trying to force it,” he says casually, like he's spouting out wisdom.

“And how would you know?”

There it was again. You were practically tapping dancing on a frozen lake at this point. From your interactions with Luke, you had learned that family and his ex were particular soft spots, but that mouth of yours always found a way to get yourself into trouble.

“You’re kinda 0 for 1 on relationships,” you add, doubling down like a fool, as if he doesn’t have the power to make your life a living hell if he wanted to.

For a split second, you brace yourself, ready for the onslaught of insults he was going to unleash upon you. But it never comes; instead… he laughs. Not offended, just amused with you as he often is.

“Not quite, I had a girlfriend in 6th grade.” He tilts his head, faux-serious. “Got pretty serious.”

“0 for 2, then?”

He snorts, bumping your shoulder with his. “Shut up.”

You glance at him, surprised to find his smile softer now, eyes crinkled at the corners. It’s almost cute. Almost.

He may be handsome, but you will never forget who the enemy is.

You step out of the hot tub dripping and regretting getting in fully dressed in the first place. That was the Luke effect in full force. He made you do things that were unbearably out of character.

“Uh, Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“A change of clothes would be nice,” you comment as you wring out a sleeve.

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

It smells like him.

Against your better judgment, you snuggle deeper into the shirt Luke lent you.

It swallows you whole.

The sleeves extend past your fingertips, soft with wear and carrying the faint scent of detergent, cold mountain air and a hint of cinnamon, you think.

You catch your reflection in the mirror and pause, biting your lip, deep in thought. Sweatpants cinched tight with the drawstring, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder slightly, Gamma Phi Theta stretched across the faded fabric. You feel as ridiculous as it looks, and yet…

There’s no denying you may like the way it feels to be wearing it. You tilt your head at yourself in the mirror, a smile working its way onto your face.

But before you start twirling around, you get back the sense you were so gravely missing.

Slapping your face, you tell yourself, “Get a grip,” and hope that’s enough to do the trick.

Shortly after leaving his bedroom, you waltz downstairs in Luke’s borrowed clothes, trying very hard to act normal about it.

From the top of the staircase, you spot the top of his head immediately. Luke’s sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, lazily scrolling while the TV plays in the background. He looks relaxed for once, hair still damp from a shower, glasses perched low on his nose.

Glasses.

Fuck.

You make a beeline for the couch, and his attention lifts to you before you reach it. So you speed up, practically throwing yourself onto the couch, lying down dramatically like a deflated balloon before he can say anything.

“What? You’re not going to give me a preview?” he jokes, peeling his eyes away from his phone.

“You can see me.”

You sweep one arm vaguely over yourself and hope that satisfies him.

He stands up and promptly takes both your hands in his.

“But I want to see you.”

With a yelp, you’re pulled to your feet and sent stumbling directly into him.

His eyes travel slowly over you, up and down, taking in the oversized shirt, the sleeves hanging past your fingers, the drawstring of the sweatpants tied too tight around your waist, and it’s unbearable. Like you’re standing under a heat lamp… in the desert… surrounded by a ring of fire. That tingly feeling that happens when you’re around Luke crawls into your bones again, strange enough to make you briefly wonder if you should go to the hospital.

Luke hums thoughtfully, “Maybe I should be your stylist from now on.”

You retort, “Absolutely not.”

You would’ve shoved him, or maybe you would’ve hit him right in the chest. But somewhere in the chaos, his grip slid from your hands to your wrists, holding them loosely in front of him like you’re his teddy bear.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he says quietly.

You look up at him, blinking in complete disbelief. He shouldn’t be saying shit like that. And those slutty little glasses of his should not make him look cute. The thought unnerves you, your heart in your mouth and your brain in your feet.

The two of you just stand there staring at each other like you can’t bear to look away. But for the first time, he seems just as flustered as you. The slight tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat when his eyes flicked down to your lips.

He clears his throat, pacing once across the room like he’s trying to physically walk off whatever just happened. He swings his arms loosely, stretches his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair in a deeply unconvincing attempt to look casual.

It was nice being able to throw Luke off his game for once. The scoreboard was not quite even but you were catching up.

“Do you want to go snowboarding?” he asks suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at you, hand still tangled in his hair.

The question hits you so out of nowhere your brain briefly stalls.

“Uh… when?” you ask, clearing the embarrassing amount of tension out of your throat.

“Now."

***

You look out at the endless snow in front of you and then turn your head to the psycho next to you.

“If this is some elaborate plan to laugh at me when I fall on my ass, just know I’ll be taking you down with me.”

Luke snorts, breath fogging in the air as he adjusts his gloves. “Relax. I’m a generous teacher.”

“That’s not the word I’d use.”

He shoots you a sideways look, all lazy confidence and irritating charm. “You’re saying you don’t trust me?”

You step onto the packed snow and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. The board wobbles beneath your boots. “I trust you exactly as far as I can throw you. Which, in this weather, is not far.”

“Good. Keeps things interesting.”

The wind howls down the slope, and for a moment the world narrows to white peaks and rushing cold. Luke moves ahead of you, then glances back at your nervous and trembling form.

“Hey,” he calls. “Eyes on the board, not on me.”

“You wish.”

He laughs, and something in your chest twists in a way you don’t quite like. It's too bright, like staring into the fucking sun. The lock you had on your heart when it came to Luke was about to come undone if you weren't careful.

Still… as he reaches out a gloved hand toward you, steady and sure, you hesitate only a second before taking it.

“You can trust me. I broke my pinky for you, remember?”

“Exactly. I caused you to break your pinky! What if this is some elaborate ruse to take revenge on me? Maybe you want to break my pinky too, or—”

He cups your face, the cool material of his gloves squashing your cheeks together. You bet you look like a chipmunk.

“Calm down.”

“Fine,” you mumble against his gloves. “Now let go of my face before I lose it.”

A grin flashes across his mouth before he finally steps back, hands lifting in surrender. Over the next few runs, he coaches you through it. And he’s actually good at teaching.

Patient in a way you didn’t expect. Guiding you through turns, showing you how to shift your weight properly, steadying you every time you wobble too hard. Every now and then his hand brushes your waist or your shoulder as he corrects your stance, and every single time your brain briefly stops functioning.

“Look where you want to go,” he calls from beside you.

“I want to go home.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Little by little, you stop falling quite so much. Your legs stop feeling like newborn deer limbs and the mountain becomes slightly less terrifying.

“This is such a rush!” you yell back to him. A fond smile spreads across Luke’s face. The way you completely lit up made it feel like the sun itself was snowboarding down the moment.

“I’m doing it!” you yell, exhilarated as you glide down the slope. “I’m—!”

As you flop over and the wind gets knocked clean out of you. You let out a small “oof” as snow sprays up around your face, cold and powdery, leaving you staring at the pale blue sky.

You hear the soft crunch of boots and wince as you sit up. To your surprise instead of Luke, you see a kid standing over you, helmet crooked, cheeks red from the cold. He sniffs loudly, wipes his nose on his glove, and grimaces.

“Lady,” he says bluntly, “you kinda suck.”

Who does this little rat think he is?

“So do you, kid.”

“Whoa, whoa—be nice,” Luke cuts in, already moving between you and the child, like he knows what you’re capable of.

“Tell that to him,” you mutter as Luke gently pulls you up and ushers you a few steps away, leaving the kid laughing behind you. After you're situated, he steps back over to the kid. You don't hear the conversation, just a few exchanged words and a loud gasp when the kid realises who he is. The interaction is about as wholesome as they come, the kid is practically hopping from one foot to the other as he asks for an autograph. Luke whips out a pen and signs the side of his helmet without hesitation, the sparkle in that boy's eyes bright enough to rival the snow around you.

A few moments later, he trudges back through the snow toward you.

“He insults me, and you give him an autograph.”

“Come on, he’s harmless,” Luke says with a laugh. “Plus, I told him to be nice to people from now on. Fifty-fifty chance he actually listens.”

You huff, but there's no real argument to be made. Besides, it doesn't exactly hurt seeing Luke be good with kids.

“Deal with that stuff often?” you ask. “Little kids running up to you screaming, ‘You’re my hero!’?”

He chuckles lightly, leaning on his board and looking out across the slope. “Sometimes. Kids are usually the brave ones. Adults tend to pretend they don't recognise me until they're standing two feet away, asking for a photo.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. But it’s all good. It’s the curse of being a national treasure. Plus, I don’t mind. I like being someone that people can look up to. I even used to give snowboarding lessons back home.” His expression softens slightly around the edges. “Don’t have as much free time anymore, but when I do, I stop by the lodge and help out.”

“You?”

Mr Get-Me-My-Face-Wash?

“Hard to believe, I know,” he smirks. “But I’m not completely evil.”

He gestures back toward the slope, where an instructor is patiently guiding the kid into position. “Sometimes you just need a guiding hand, I like being able to do that for people. I needed that when I was a kid.”

You follow his gaze and find yourself smiling.

Huh, there’s the golden boy.

Luke looks back at you, catching the shift in your expression. “What?”

“Oh, uh, nothing, I was just wondering…”

You look up, trying to pluck anything to say out of the sky when it hits you.

“Hey, do you want to go to the north trail instead? It’s more private, less crowded…” You glare back toward the child still watching you from uphill. “And I don’t want to be accosted by any more children.”

“Understandable. Lead the way.”

So the two of you head further out, the trail narrowing as you move deeper into the trees, the noise from the resort fading until it’s just the crunch of snow and the occasional gust of wind stirring the pines above you. Then, in the distance, Luke spots a cabin tucked between the trees. It’s small and rustic, so small in fact it almost blends into the snow and trees surrounding it.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Oh, that’s one of the old staff cabins. Mostly for emergencies and bad weather now.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And sometimes the staff go there to…” You hesitate.

“Hook up?” he supplies immediately.

“What? No! Get your head out of the gutter!” you sputter. “I meant, like, chill between shifts or warm up or whatever. But, it is pretty isolated.”

“Interesting. So the fact that you brought me out here has nothing to do with the cabin. ”

“You’re insufferable. I literally didn’t even point it out. You did.”

“I don’t know… I think you want to make out with me.”

“I don’t!”

"The lady doth protest too much.”

You shove him hard enough for him to topple over into the snow. The usual “serves him right” jumps out in you promptly, followed by a smidge of guilt.

A cloud of air leaves your mouth in a sigh. “Sorry, I—”

Before you can finish your apology, his hands shoot out and grasp yours, pulling you to the ground with him.

“Asshole!” you yell at him. You’ve been in this position before. Your hands on his chest, body pressed against his, an ungodly amount of eye contact. “I hate you.”

“Aw, I hate you more.”

He then proceeds to put a snowball down the back of your jacket like an asshole.

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