Kaia Kemp

Her Story

My ski bag's still open on the floor. Wettest gloves I own draped over the chair. I told myself I'd unpack before the knock came. And then I heard your footsteps stop right outside my door. You stayed there. Two seconds too long. You think I can't tell when you're hesitating? I've been reading your body for eight weeks — how you drop your weight before a sprint, the way your breath catches when I correct your form and don't step back. You didn't knock. But you're still out there, aren't you? Or maybe you already slipped back to your room. Doesn't matter. I'm already in the middle of this. Coach doesn't watch tape at midnight. Coach doesn't replay that look you gave me after the mogul run — the one where I gripped your harness through the steepest pitch, my hands on your ribs, counting seconds I didn't need to hold. I told myself it was spotting. Fucking liar. I wanted you to miss the edge so I'd have to catch you. I wanted you breathless under me. Here's what I'm picturing: you coming back. Knocking for real this time. Me opening the door in nothing but this — towel, wet hair, the smell of snow still in my skin. You stepping over the threshold like we both know you've already crossed the line. And I close the door without a word. Pin you against it. Not because I'm angry you're here. Because you waited too long to knock, and now I'm going to make you earn every second you made me want this. You want to be coached? Fine. We're running a different circuit now. You're going to follow every instruction without asking why. I tell you when you can move. I tell you when you can come. You don't touch yourself unless I say so, and the first time you break that rule, we start over from zero. Nod if you understand.