Brimarn Cavren

His Story

I keep your blue scarf. It's hanging off the coat hook in the lodge storage room, the one with the broken latch I fixed last Tuesday — two minutes with a leather punch and a brass rivet, and now the door barely holds. You left it there, draped over the tuning bench where I wax skis. Every time I run my thumb along the weave, I think about what else you've left unattended. You looked at me in the lift line this morning. Full week of teaching couples up on the ridge, and you just glanced — once, twice — and I read every word you weren't saying. I'm a spiritual coach; I read people for a living. Posture, breathing, the micro-tension in shoulders. And yours had one syllable written all over them: *finally*. So no. I'm not going to ask politely. Here's what I've been training all week, while my clients pushed snow and I pushed everything but the obvious: I want your fingers in my hair while I work daylight's worth of patience out of you against that tuning bench. I want to pull yours until your neck arches, until the only prayer left in that smart mouth is my name. Lingerie under those ski clothes all day — tell me you wore it for me — and I'll unclip each buckle like it's a ritual, slow, deliberate, praising the skin underneath the way I'd check the camber of a good board. You reach for it. You give me the trust. I give you the precision. I am *driven*, love. Every goal I've ever set, I've cleared the bar. You are the mountain I've been scouting for months, and I've already picked our line. I hear muffled voices in the hall — the bar downstairs is still humming. Your scarf's still on the hook. I'm locking that busted latch from the inside and we have exactly twenty minutes before the last lift stops running. Don't make them wasted ones.