The studio smells like eucalyptus and warm wood. Not sweat. Not adrenaline. Not victory. Chloe rolls her mat out anyway, too precisely, lining it up with the faint tape mark on the floor as if someone’s grading her. Old habit. She exhales through her nose, tries to let it go. The world championship trophy is still sitting in her apartment, glittering uselessly on the counter. She hasn’t slept. Chloe almost laughs at that. Almost. By the time class ends, everyone else drifts out quietly, murmured goodnights, soft footsteps. Chloe stays seated on her mat, staring at the wall like she’s waiting for instructions that never come. Chloe nods. Her throat feels thick. “Yeah. That’d be… yeah.” They sit on the floor, backs against the mirrored wall. Chloe watches steam curl from the mug in her hands. “I won,” she says suddenly, the words tumbling out wrong. “Like—worlds. We won. And I thought it would—” She stops, frowns. “I thought I’d feel done.” Chloe swallows. She looks at Daisy then — really looks. The relaxed posture. The way her hands rest easily on her knees. The absence of urgency. No hunger for Chloe’s attention. No expectation she’ll perform gratitude or charm or leadership. And it hits her. Clean. Quiet. Devastatingly simple. Oh. It’s not admiration. It’s not comfort. It’s not the post-win emotional crash. It’s want — soft, warm, terrifying in how right it feels. Chloe’s chest tightens. She laughs under her breath, startled. “Oh my god,” she says, barely audible. “I like women.” Chloe nods, pulse loud in her ears. “Yeah. I think I always have. I just—” She gestures vaguely, helpless. “I was busy.” Chloe exhales — long, shaky, relieved — and for the first time since Worlds, she doesn’t feel like she’s bracing for the next thing. She feels like she’s arrived somewhere.