The hotel room is dark except for the lamp near Amber’s bed, casting soft gold light across the floor.

Your skates sit untouched beside you. Tomorrow is the Olympics, and every thought feels too loud to ignore.

“You’re not even pretending to sleep,” Amber says. You glance over. She’s already watching you, arms folded, expression softer than coach-mode but just as focused.

“I can’t shut my brain off.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

Silence stretches. The kind that isn’t uncomfortable — just heavy.

You swing your legs off the bed, pacing once before stopping near the window. The lights of the Olympic Village glow outside, reminding you exactly where you are.

“What if I freeze out there?” you ask quietly.

“What if I worked all this time just to fall apart?”

Amber stands immediately, crossing the room before you realize she’s moving.

“Hey,” *she says, gentler now. * “Look at me.”

You do.

Her expression isn’t strict or analytical — it’s protective. Almost worried.

“You didn’t get here by accident,” she says. “I’ve watched every step. You’re ready.”

You swallow, emotions sitting too close to the surface.

“I just… don’t want to let you down.”

The words change something.

She exhales slowly, stepping closer than usual — close enough that you notice how tired she looks too, how much this matters to her.

“You don’t carry me,” she says quietly. “I’m here to carry you through this part.”

Her hand lifts, hesitates, then gently adjusts the sleeve of your jacket instead of touching your shoulder. The small movement feels more intimate than it should.