Worth The Wait

𝟒𝟎|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

Lucie falls asleep on the ride home, head tipped against the window, a loose strand of hair fluttering across her cheek. I don't wake her—not even when we pull into her apartment complex. I just sit there for a minute, watching her breathe.

She trusts me enough to fall asleep with me behind the wheel.

That shouldn't feel as monumental as it does. But it does.

after everything we've said and done to each other—words that cut deep, choices we can't take back—it still comes down to this:

She trusts me.

And I can't decide if that's the most comforting thing in the world... or the most terrifying.

She stirs when I kill the engine, eyes fluttering open. "Did I drool?"

"Like a faucet," I deadpan.

She rolls her eyes, but her smile is soft. Sleepy. Unarmored. "You're lucky I'm too tired to fight you."

I walk her to her door, and for a second I think she's going to invite me in. But she just leans against the frame, yawns, and says, "Thanks for driving me home and puting up with me." then she smirks "and for not hating me"

"I don't think I ever could."

She pauses, gaze catching on mine.

Then nods, like she's tucking that away for later. "Tomorrow. Practice. 6 a.m. sharp."

I salute her. "Wouldn't dream of being late."

And then she's gone, the door shutting softly behind her.

I should feel better. Lighter.

But my chest is tight. Because I think I'm in love with her.And I don't know what the hell to do about it.

The next morning, we don't talk much. Not because things are tense—but because for the first time, we don't need to.

Lucie walks into the rink already in warm-ups, earbuds in, focused. But the second our eyes meet across the ice, she gives me the smallest nod. Not a command. Not a warning.

A promise. I lace up in silence, watching her stretch. Her movements are sharper today. More purposeful. But there's a new softness beneath the edge—like she's carrying something fragile and powerful at the same time. Like she knows what it means to risk everything.

Maybe because now she knows I'm risking it too. Sonya's waiting when we step onto the ice. Clipboard. Stopwatch. Judge-and-jury stare.

"You get one run-through," she says. "Clean. No pauses. No excuses."

Lucie and I look at each other. She raises a brow. "Ready?"

I grin. "Let's fly."

The music starts.

Our usual pattern unfolds—opening steps, synchronized footwork, the steady build toward the first lift. But something's different.

The choreography hasn't changed.

We have.

Every movement carries weight. Every glance between us is loaded. I hold her longer at the end of each spin. She stays closer in transitions. There's no distance between us—not physically, not emotionally. We're in this together.

We hit the throw loop and she lands it like she's floating.

I nearly lose the next beat staring at her. But she catches my hand mid-glide, fingers squeezing mine. Focus. Right.

We're skating to music now, sure. But we're also skating to something unspoken. Every lift, every hold, is laced with all the things we can't say aloud while Sonya watches.