She sees us and immediately waves.
"We're heading back to the lodge," I murmur. "Sophie is done for the day."
Hattie pouts, but Sidney must see something on Sophie's face—or hell, on mine—because he immediately jumps in to distract my sister, allowing me to escape with his.
I steer us around to the opposite side of the van and help her in before I climb in after, setting our skis in the rack.
Sophie's shivering so hard, her teeth clack together.
"Come here," I say, hauling her onto my lap.
She doesn't protest, but she doesn't exactly relax, either.
I wrap my arms around her, cradling her to my chest. The van's heat is cranked, but she doesn't start to thaw until I rub my hands up and down her arms, then her back, then her thighs.
"Your hands are freezing," she mutters as the van pulls out, but she doesn't make a move to get up.
I keep rubbing.
We're silent for several minutes, the only sound the hum of the van's tires.
"You want to know what I really said in that interview?" I finally ask.
She's very still, her breath warm on my neck. "I already read it," she whispers, but I can hear the hesitant hope in her voice, like she wants me to give her a reason to believe I'm not the asshole that article made me out to be.
I hug her tighter. "They took one line, Sophie. The rest of what I said never made the article."
"What did you say?" she whispers, searching my face.
"That it's an insult to compare a ballerina to an athlete, because athletes are just athletes. We move, we hit, we sweat, and we call it a job. Ballerinas take everything it means to be strong and turn it into something beautiful. You turn athleticism into an art form, baby, and you make it look so easy that people forget it's even hard at all. That's not a sport, it's fucking magic." I swallow, my throat tight. "I said no one with a football or a hockey stick will ever be able to touch that. It's not a competition, because we're not even on the same level as you."
She's silent for a long time. Long enough that I start to think I've made it worse. Then, she exhales, her breath shaking. "Why didn't you just say that?"
"Because you blocked me. Not even a bulldozer could get through the wall you threw up to keep me out."
She makes a sound—a half-sob, half-laugh—and buries her face in my coat.
I rest my chin on her head and close my eyes, relief burning through me. I don't know what to do with this feeling, but I never want to lose it.
Her body shakes even though she's not crying. There's no way Sophie Hawkes would cry over me, but her arms wrap around my waist, and she holds on, like she's afraid of letting go.
I hold her right back.
When we get to the lodge, she doesn't move to get out of the van. Instead, she leans up, placing her lips against my cheek. "Thank you," she whispers against my skin.
"For what?"
"For making me feel like enough."
I don't have the right words, and I don't try to find them. I cup her cheek and pull her into a kiss instead, trying to tell her with my body what my mouth is too fucking clumsy to get right.
She melts into it, her hands fisting in my jacket, her whole body arching into mine.
I'm so fucking gone for her. So gone.
"Why me?" she asks when I finally let her up. "Why do you want me, Harlan?"
The question is so simple, so confused, that it knocks the wind out of me. I think it might also be the most important question I've ever been asked.