hi!! how are you, love? your work is amazing, I'm amused. i have a vague idea of a fic about toto and wanted to share it with you. imagine him catching some deep feelings with reader not too long after meeting her, first woman he has a crush on after getting a divorce and when one thing takes them to another, they realise they have no protection and she's not on the pill either, I'm so curious about what could happen next. anyways hope you have a beautiful day, wish you the best
Aww Thank you! Wish you all the best Anon too! ❤️
The Principal and the Skier | Toto Wolff
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Toto Wolff x fem!skier!reader
Summary: You’re a rising Austrian ski star, he’s fresh out of a painful divorce, and when you meet by chance at the Austrian Grand Prix, the spark between you is instant and impossible to ignore. What starts as a simple brand event turns into something far deeper: a slow-burn connection, unexpected tenderness, and a bond neither of you saw coming.
Warnings: age gap (25years), slow burn → mutual desire, F1 x skiing crossover, emotional vulnerability, mentions of divorce, intimacy, soft smut, oral sex (f and m reciving).
Words count: 5k
A/n: I got so wrapped up in the story that I had to give them some background and a bit of a slow burn, because after Mirrorline I really needed something positive, romantic, and sweet 🤭
The morning air in Spielberg tastes like summer and pine, sunlight catching on the rolling green hills that always make you feel strangely at home. You told yourself you were here for work — for Adidas, for the little promotional push they wanted before the winter season began, for the cameras and interviews and the brand event set up next to the Mercedes garage, but as you stepped into the paddock with your accreditation around your neck, you felt more like a tourist than an ambassador.
You grew up in these mountains. You trained here. You broke bones and records on these slopes.
But Formula 1?
That was an entirely different world.
Still, you smiled, shook hands, posed for photos, let the photographers get their shots of “Austria’s ski star meets Austrian GP,” and tried not to trip over any cables on the way.
You weren’t expecting him.
You had just finished a short Adidas promo when someone called your name — soft, accented. You turned, and suddenly Toto Wolff was standing in front of you, tall and impossibly composed, the kind of presence that fills a space before he even speaks.
“Fraulein,” he said, offering his hand, “a pleasure. I’m Toto.”
You laughed, shaking his hand, pretending your pulse didn’t jump.
“I know who you are. Austria would riot if we didn’t.”
His smile grew a little crooked, a little warmer. “Good. Then I don’t have to introduce myself twice.”
You talked. At first small, polite things — your sport, his sport, the chaos of crowds, the weight of expectations. But then something shifted. One moment you were comparing injuries, the next you were teasing him about Mercedes’ pit wall stress levels, and he was telling you, quietly, almost shyly, that he watches your races on weekends when he can.
“I follow your career,” he admitted, eyes warm. “You’re remarkable. Strong. Brave. And your giant jumps terrify me, so that must mean you’re talented.”
You felt your cheeks heat despite yourself. Praise from him, of all people, felt strangely intimate.
You walked with him through the paddock, and he explained everything — DRS, tyre strategy, pit stops, why George and Kimi always looked like they were doing maths in their heads. In return, you told him why skiers stare at the mountain before a run, why fear sharpens concentration, how the snow feels different on dangerous days. He listened, hands in his pockets, eyes on you more than the cars.
And something… clicked.
You felt it in the way he leaned closer when you spoke, in the moments when he let himself laugh, openly, freely, like someone who hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. When he mentioned his divorce, brief, quiet, almost as if it had slipped out — you didn’t push, you only said you were sorry he went through something so heavy.
He nodded, grateful, his voice softer.
“It was difficult. Still is, some days. But…”
A pause.
“I’m learning to breathe again.”
Later, as fans gathered and engines roared in the distance, you found yourselves alone for a moment near the Mercedes hospitality. The afternoon sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and Toto looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.
“When are your next competitions?” he asked.
“In two weeks,” you said. “A summer glacier event in Italy. Small one, but important. You should come.”
His eyebrows lifted, amused, surprised, maybe a little touched. “You’re inviting me?”
You shrugged, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Well… someone has to explain skiing to you the way you explained F1 to me.”
He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that softened him in a way you hadn’t expected.
“Then I’ll be there,” he said simply.
No hesitation. No doubt.
“As long as you’ll allow me to cheer for you in person.”
You held his gaze, feeling the kind of pull that made no sense and every sense at the same time, two Austrians from different worlds, suddenly orbiting closer than either of you had planned.
You didn’t say it aloud, not yet. But you both felt it. A thread tightening between you. A spark. Something beginning. That neither of you could stop, even if you tried.
From that moment on, something shifts.
What was supposed to be a polite, professional encounter at the Austrian GP becomes the start of something neither of you can quite name, a thread between you that tightens a little more each day.
It starts that same evening.
You’ve barely returned to your hotel when your phone rings, an unfamiliar number lighting up the screen.
You answer hesitantly.
“Hallo?”
A low, unmistakable voice laughs softly.
“I hope you forgive my… persistence. I asked half the paddock for your number until someone finally gave it to me. This is Toto.”
You sit down on the edge of the bed, suddenly breathless.
“You really called.”
“I said I would,” he replies, as if the idea of not calling you hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I meant it.”
You talk for twenty minutes. Then an hour. Then two.
It becomes a rhythm, a pattern — messages in the morning, voice notes in the afternoon, calls every night where he asks about your training, your skis, the next course you’ll compete on… and you, in return, learn corners of F1 you never cared to understand until he explained them in that warm, low voice.
He’s funny, too, unexpectedly so, and when he relaxes, he tells stories from the paddock that make you laugh until your stomach hurts.
And beneath all the words, all the shared jokes, there is that other feeling.
The one neither of you name aloud.
You train harder than ever for the upcoming competition, legs burning as you push down the slope, air cutting against your face. But every time you pause, every time you catch your breath, your mind slips back to him.
The idea of Toto Wolff standing somewhere behind the barriers with his arms crossed, watching you race with the same intensity he watches an F1 car... God. It does something to you.
And the closer the competition gets, the more the excitement inside you grows, a restless hum under your skin.
One evening, after training, still flushed and out of breath, you get another call from him.
“Ready?” he asks. “For your big day?”
You smile into the night air. “Ready. Nervous. And… excited.”
“For the race?” he teases.
“For seeing you again,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
There is a beat of silence — warm, charged.
Then his voice drops.
“I’m looking forward to that as well.”
Your heart jumps. You shouldn’t feel like this. He shouldn’t feel like this. There’s almost twenty-five years between you. Two completely different worlds. Two different careers, schedules, lives.
And yet, there is something about him, something steady and magnetic and impossible to ignore. Something that makes you want him in ways you never expected. Something that makes him stay on the phone with you until three in the morning, voice low and soft, as if he, too, can’t get enough.
The countdown begins, not to your race, but to the moment you see him again.
*
The day of the competition comes faster than you expected, and even though you spent the whole morning warming up, checking your skis, and going through the course in your head, your stomach turns the moment you hear that he has arrived.
Toto Wolff, tall as a tree and looking unfairly good even in a simple sports jacket and running shoes, walks toward the athletes’ area like he belongs here, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
You stand there in your full racing suit, helmet under your arm, boots already tightened, and when he notices you, something soft flashes in his eyes.
He stops right in front of you, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual even though he is clearly fighting a smile.
“I wanted to say hello,” he says quietly, “but I didn’t want to distract you before your run.”
You shake your head right away, heat rising in your face.
“Actually… it’s the opposite,” you answer, words rushing out before you can stop them. “You being here motivates me like hell.”
You immediately bite your tongue because you didn’t mean to say it so directly, but Toto’s smile only gets wider — that boyish, almost shy smile he shouldn’t be able to pull off at his age, a smile that hits you far too hard.
“Then I’ll keep cheering for you,” he says, voice warm. “I’m crossing my fingers for you today.”
You nod, trying not to think too much, trying not to let your heartbeat give you away, and then you head toward the start zone while he moves toward the spectators’ area.
But even when you stand at the top of the course, waiting for the signal, you feel his presence somewhere below — steady, grounding, strangely calming.
The gate opens, you push off, and everything becomes movement and instinct.
You carve through each turn, feel the snow spraying behind you, and every second feels sharp and fast and alive.
You know you’re quick, you know the line is clean, and when you cross the finish and hear the crowd roar, you already suspect the result.
You won.
When you step onto the podium with the trophy in your hands, flashes going off everywhere, you scan the crowd automatically, and there he is.
Toto stands at the front, clapping with that proud, bright smile that makes your chest tighten, and for a moment you forget the cameras, forget the rest of the world, because all you see is him looking at you like he’s genuinely happy to be here.
You come down the ramp after all the interviews and photos, still flushed with adrenaline, the medal warm against your chest and the trophy heavy in your hand. Toto is already making his way toward you through the small crowd, tall and unmistakable. The proud look on his face sends another wave of heat through you.
“That,” he says as soon as he reaches you, eyes sweeping over your flushed face and wind-tangled hair, “was something. I knew you were good, but that… that was incredible.”
You laugh, breathless, still glowing. “I could give you a few lessons if you want. You know… if you’re not afraid to embarrass yourself.”
He laughs, a full, warm sound that makes your stomach flip, and he shakes his head. “I ski well enough. But what you do out there... mein Gott, that’s on an entirely different level.”
You feel the adrenaline still moving through your veins, making everything brighter, sharper — his voice, his smile, the way his eyes linger on you a little longer than they should. His presence does something to you, something new and electric, and you’re almost certain he feels it too.
“My team is planning a small celebration,” you say, rolling your eyes a little. “You know… drinks, loud music, people pretending they’re not exhausted. They’re sweet, but those parties really aren’t my thing. Still, I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
Then you bite your lip before you can stop yourself. “If you don’t have plans… maybe you’d join us? It would make it more bearable.”
He chuckles softly, leaning in just a little. “Are you sure you want your new… acquaintance at your team party? I don’t want to get in the way. This is your day, after all.”
You shake your head quickly.
“With you there, it’ll be more enjoyable. Trust me.”
Something warm flickers behind his eyes.
“Well,” he says slowly, “in that case… I’d be honored.”
*
Evening settles over the mountains by the time you make your way to the hotel where the small celebration is set up. You shower, change into something comfortable but nice, let your hair down, and when you step out of the elevator, you spot Toto immediately.
He’s sitting in one of the lounge chairs outside the event room, a drink in hand, long legs crossed casually, talking to your coach. His posture is relaxed, but everything about him is still striking — commanding, elegant, effortlessly magnetic.
The moment he sees you, he stops mid-sentence. His smile widens, slow and warm, the kind that hits you right in the chest.
He stands up, placing the drink aside, eyes tracing you from head to toe in a way that makes your pulse trip over itself.
“There she is,” he says, voice low and filled with something you can’t quite name yet. “The champion of the day.”
Your coach looks between you two with a grin, clearly sensing the tension, but politely excuses himself a moment later, leaving you alone with Toto.
And as you step toward him, you can already feel the air shifting — charged, expectant.
*
The party goes on around you — loud music, laughter, people clinking glasses, but somehow the two of you end up in a quiet corner, sitting close enough that your knees brush from time to time, both of you pretending not to notice how electric that small touch feels.
Toto relaxes slowly, the stiffness in his shoulders fading as he talks, his voice low and warm. He tells you that the divorce with Susie was difficult, that even though they separated peacefully for Jack’s sake, it still left a heavy place in his chest, a silence he didn’t quite know how to fill. You listen, and something soft twists inside you, because behind his strong posture and calm smile you hear a man who has carried far too much alone.
You tell him about your long relationship, how it faded between airports and early-morning training sessions, how you kept trying to hold on but the distance kept winning, and how competing at a high level sometimes means sacrificing parts of yourself you didn’t expect to lose. He nods, understanding it instantly.
“I know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to pack a suitcase every week and wake up in cities that don’t feel like home anymore… it wears you down.”
It hits you then, he understands you in a way few people ever have, and that makes something warm bloom in your chest.
You both laugh at a few stories you exchange, you sip your drinks, and you realize that the room full of people barely exists for you anymore. It is just him, the way he leans slightly toward you when you speak, the way his eyes keep drifting to your lips, the way his hand rests near your knee as if he’s fighting the urge to touch you.
Then someone shouts across the room, “Come on! Party means dancing!”
A few teammates whistle and cheer.
You groan and laugh at the same time, the kind of laugh that comes only after a drink or two loosens your nerves. And before you can overthink it, you reach out your hand to him.
“Come with me,” you say, smiling up at him.
He looks surprised for half a second, then a smile spreads across his face, soft and almost boyish. He takes your hand without hesitation, lets you pull him toward the dance floor.
The music shifts suddenly, turning slow and warm, the kind that fills the air like a gentle wave. People around you laugh, sway, cling to their partners. You turn to leave, slow songs were never your comfort zone, but Toto gently catches your waist and pulls you back.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs.
You step closer, your heels making you barely reach his shoulder. His hand settles on your lower back, firm and protective, the other taking your hand as if he has done this with you a thousand times before. For a few seconds you just sway, his breath brushing your forehead, your heartbeat thudding far too fast for someone simply dancing.
Then he leans down, his lips near your ear, his voice barely a whisper.
“This is madness,” he says, the honesty in his tone making your whole body tighten. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since you came to the Red Bull Ring… something changed. You made me feel alive again.”
Your breath catches. The room keeps spinning around you, but all you see is him. He hesitates, searching your face with a vulnerable seriousness you didn’t expect.
“Tell me I’m not imagining it,” he whispers. “Tell me you feel it too.”
You look up into his eyes — warm, dark, full of something dangerous and beautiful, and your voice comes out soft, trembling, true.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I feel it too. I… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
His hand tightens around your waist, just slightly, as if those words hit him somewhere deep inside, somewhere he had kept sealed for months after the divorce, and when he exhales, something in him loosens, something heavy, something that had been holding him back.
From that moment on, neither of you can seem to separate, as if gravity itself has shifted and now pulls you toward him with quiet inevitability. You stay close, bodies angled toward each other, every brush of a hand or shoulder sending warmth skittering up your spine. Around you, people laugh, dance, spill drinks, shout over the music, but none of it touches you. The world shrinks to a soft blur. For you, for Toto, there is only the other, the warmth of his breath, the curve of his smile, the comfort of being understood.
By the time the night grows late and people begin to drift toward the exits, their voices hoarse from shouting and their steps unsteady from drinks, you realize you don’t want this evening to end. And when Toto turns to you with that gentle, earnest smile and says he’ll walk you to your room, you agree so quickly it makes him huff a quiet laugh.
You walk through the quiet hallways of the hotel in silence, not awkward, but full of something electric, something that pulses between your joined steps. At first, your hands brush accidentally, fingertips grazing, but then, without thinking, his fingers hook with yours, and suddenly your palms are pressed together, warm and solid, as natural as breathing.
When you reach your door, you turn to him, nerves fluttering in your stomach.
“Do you… do you want to come in?”
You try to sound casual, but your voice betrays your hope.
He looks at you for a long moment, as if searching your face for even a shadow of hesitation.
But you feel none. And he sees that.
He steps inside the room, and when the door closes behind him with a soft click, something inside both of you shifts.
You stand facing each other in the quiet, your hearts pounding loud in your ears. He approaches slowly, almost cautiously, as if he’s afraid a single sudden movement might break the spell you’re both under. His hand rises to your cheek, fingers warm, tender, the touch so careful that your breath catches.
“Schatz…” he murmurs.
A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of the word, the intimacy of it, the softness.
You lift your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble there, and gently pull him toward you.
The first kiss is slow, cautious, full of emotion rather than heat, like both of you are savoring the moment, memorizing it, scared to rush it. But the second kiss breaks something open inside him. He pulls you closer, hands sliding to your waist, your back, holding you like he can’t bear the thought of letting go. Your bodies press together, warm and eager, his breath mixing with yours.
A soft, involuntary moan escapes your throat, quiet, but enough to make his grip tighten, enough to make him swallow air like a man who’s been starved.
You melt into him, hands clutching at his shirt, legs brushing his, your entire body drawn to his like flame to oxygen.
And Toto reacts instantly with a low, helpless sound deep in his chest, as if he’s finally giving in to something he has been fighting from the moment he first saw you on that podium, radiant and untouchable and entirely unforgettable.
He scoops you up as if you weigh nothing, not breaking the kiss, carrying you to the nearest sofa. You straddle his lap, your knees pressed to either side of his hips. Your hands work quickly, sliding your top off and tossing it aside, skin prickling as Toto’s lips find your neck, then your collarbone. He moves lower, mouth trailing heat along your skin, hands steady as he unclasps your bra and peels it away, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re trembling, back arching toward him.
His grip on your waist tightens, guiding your slow movements, grinding your body against him as you feel his arousal, thick and solid, straining through his jeans. You press closer, wanting more, desperate for the friction, the contact, everything. Your hands find his shirt and you start undoing the buttons one by one, fingers fumbling in your hurry, needing to feel his skin beneath your palms.
The tension coils hot and tight in your stomach, every movement, every caress making you ache for him. He breaks away from your mouth, voice rough against your ear.
“Schatz, if we don’t stop now, I’m going to lose control. I don’t want us to regret anything, and... I don’t have a condom.”
You pause, forehead pressed to his, trying to catch your breath, your body shaking with want. You murmur, “I’m not on anything either. I can’t take the pills... they mess me up too much.”
He breathes out slowly, his hands still stroking your bare back, lips brushing your jaw.
“As much as I want you right now, more than anything... I don’t want this to be rushed, or for us to take chances. Not with you.”
Your heart thuds hard. You want him so badly you can taste it, and you can feel his cock, hot and insistent, pressing against you. But there’s a sweetness in the way he holds you, the way his thumbs smooth over your skin as he resists his own need.
You nod, swallowing, eyes closing as you try to calm your body.
“You’re probably right,” you whisper, “even if it’s torture.”
A soft smile touches his lips, and he cups your face gently.
“There are other ways, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and promising.
Before you can reply, he lifts you in his arms, and you wrap your legs instinctively around his waist. He carries you across the room, laying you down on the bed with reverence, as if you’re something precious.
“Let me take care of you,” he says, kneeling above you, his eyes burning with both restraint and devotion.
His hands and mouth start to wander again, slower now, even more gentle, making you tremble, making you feel adored and wanted in a way you’ve never known before.
He kisses you slowly, his mouth soft on your skin, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His hands move with care, sliding down your sides, unfastening your jeans and peeling them off along with your panties, baring you to him completely. He pauses for a moment, just looking at you, hunger and adoration mixing in his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” Toto whispers, voice low and honest, as if it’s the only thing that matters.
He presses soft kisses to your thighs, then moves between your legs, his hands strong and sure on your hips as he settles in. His mouth finds your center, tongue circling your clit in slow, teasing patterns, building your pleasure with expert control. Your moans grow louder, the sensation almost too much, the way his tongue moves, the way he holds you still, the deep rumble of his voice every time you cry out.
He slips his fingers inside you, gentle but insistent, stroking you in perfect rhythm, mouth and hand working together until you’re trembling, the heat spiraling out of control. The orgasm hits you fast and hard, stealing your breath, making your whole body tense and shudder as you cry out, clinging to the sheets, to him, to anything that will anchor you.
Toto doesn’t stop, he holds you through every wave, mouth and fingers never letting go, coaxing every last aftershock from your body until you finally go limp, spent and shaking. Only then does he move up, his body covering yours, his lips capturing you in a deep, intense kiss that steals what’s left of your breath.
You’re still trembling when you finally pull away, grinning as you whisper, “Well, if this is the prize for winning, I might never want to lose again.”
He laughs, warm and proud, brushing your hair back from your face.
“I intend to reward you like this every day,” he promises, his voice a low, teasing growl.
And you know, as you melt into his arms, that you’ve fallen, completely and hopelessly, for him.
As you’re lying there, still catching your breath, your body loose and content, but you feel Toto’s cock, still hard and pressed against your thigh. With a slow, satisfied smile, you reach down, wrapping your fingers around him. He starts to protest, voice rough.
“You don’t have to, Schatz, you’ve done enough...”, but you just shake your head, eyes bright with mischief.
“I want to,” you whisper, and you mean it.
You slide down, trailing kisses along his stomach, feeling the heat and tension in his muscles. When you take him in your hand, his breath catches. When you take him in your mouth, slow at first, teasing, your tongue circling the head, tasting the first salty slickness there, he lets out a long, shuddering exhale.
He’s big, stretching your lips, and you relish the way he responds to every movement, his hand tangled gently in your hair, hips lifting just a little, voice slipping into German and English both as you set a slow, steady rhythm. You look up at him, meeting his gaze, wanting him to see just how much you’re enjoying this, how much you want him.
His breathing gets heavier, his grip tightens, and you speed up, taking him deeper, working him harder until his control starts to break.
“I’m close,” he manages, voice strangled.
You don’t stop, holding his gaze as he comes, swallowing everything, savoring the taste and the heat. You pull away only when he’s finished, lips brushing the sensitive skin, smiling up at him as you crawl back into his arms.
Toto’s still panting, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world. He strokes your hair, shaking his head in wonder.
“I think I’ve completely lost my mind over you,” he says softly, a little dazed.
You grin, curling into his side, heart pounding with something more than just lust.
“That makes two of us.”
You lie together in the quiet, the world outside forgotten, knowing that everything changed tonight, and neither of you would have it any other way.
*
You fall asleep wrapped around each other, his arms heavy and warm around your waist, your face pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady and grounding, and for the first time in a long while you drift off without tension in your shoulders, without thoughts racing, just the quiet comfort of him breathing against your hair.
When you wake, the room is filled with soft morning light, and Toto is already awake, lying on his side, head propped on one hand, watching you with that small, tender smile he rarely shows in public.
Before you can say a word, he leans in and kisses the tip of your nose gently.
“Guten Morgen, meine Kleine,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.
You smile, still half-asleep, and kiss him softly on the lips. “Guten Morgen.”
You lie there like that for a while, so close your legs are tangled, your breaths slow, the quiet between you comfortable and safe. His fingers trace lazy lines down your arm, across your ribs, like he’s memorising you, and you feel your whole body relax again.
Then he clears his throat softly, like he’s trying to gather courage.
“Do you have any plans for the next weeks?” he asks, eyes never leaving yours. “The summer break is coming for us in Formula 1… and I thought maybe we could escape somewhere together. Nothing big, just… some time, the two of us. And...”
He hesitates, the words catching in his throat.
“I would like you to meet my children. Jack, and Rose, and Ben…”
You blink up at him, surprised, and he misreads the look on yout face immediately. His smile falters, and he lifts a hand as if to retreat from his own idea.
“But only if you want to,” he adds quickly, almost too quickly. “I don’t want to push anything too fast. I know I’m older, I know my life is complicated, and you’re at the beginning of your career, and the noise around us will not make anything easier. I understand if...”
You press your hand gently to his lips, stopping him.
“Toto,” you whisper, shaking your head, “don’t be stupid.”
His eyes widen a little, surprised.
“I would love to meet your kids,” you continue, tracing his jaw with your thumb. “The noise is there whether we hide or not. And the age gap doesn’t mean anything to me. Not when being with you feels like this. Not when I feel with you something I’ve never felt with anyone.”
For a moment he just stares at you, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. Then slowly, carefully, the warmest smile spreads across his face — soft, grateful, almost relieved.
He cups your cheek, pulls you closer, and kisses you slowly, deeply, a kiss that feels like a promise.
“I’m glad,” he whispers against your lips. “Because with you… I finally feel like I can breathe again.”
You hold each other in the quiet morning light, the world outside far away, knowing that something real has begun between you, and neither of us wants to run from it.
You can feel it in the way his fingers trace slow circles on your back, in the way your forehead rests against his chest, in the way neither of you reaches for your phones, your clothes, or any excuse to break this fragile, perfect moment.
Neither of you expected this, certainly not he, with his complicated life and bruised heart, certainly not you, with your rising career and the whole world ahead.
But somehow, against all logic, against the noise of your schedules and the difference in your ages and the chaos surrounding your names, this found you both anyway.
And lying there in his arms, wrapped in warmth and quiet breath, you realize something simple and unstoppable: You’re happy. He’s happy.
And for the first time in a long time, you’re both ready to see where this goes, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with something that feels dangerously close to hope and... love.
Note: He has won four Swedish championship medals and competed for his country in the 2026 Winter Olympics. Lundholm is the first openly trans athlete to compete in a Winter Olympics; as of 2026 he competes in the women's category due to the current IOC rules.
