The sweater itched like a motherfucker.

Bennett stood in the lobby of Team USA's Olympic Village building, half-listening to Coach Blythe drone on about slope angles and weather patterns while trying not to think about how the massive Olympic rings stretched across his stomach made him look like a walking billboard. No disrespect to Ralph Lauren, but subtlety had clearly taken a backseat to patriotism this year.

"—and the transition on the halfpipe is steeper than Park City, so you'll need to adjust your approach on the second hit—"

"Mmhm."

Bennett's attention drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains. Livigno was unreal—endless white peaks beneath a sky so blue it bordered on fake. The kind of terrain that made his fingers itch for his board, that made him want to skip the administrative bullshit and just ride.

He'd arrived eight days early. Red Bull's idea of tapering before the Games, which really just meant maintaining training while staying "relaxed." Two weeks in Amalfi for sponsorship obligations, then the drive north to Livigno, trading Mediterranean warmth for alpine cold. He'd holed up in a small lodging outside the Olympic chaos—just him, his gear, and access to the mountains before the circus rolled in.

The conditions had been perfect. February in Livigno was brutal, the kind of temp that punished sloppy breathing, but it was his kind of cold. The kind he'd grown up chasing at Mammoth. Perfect snow. Empty slopes. Exactly what he needed to get his head straight.

And then, five nights ago, he met you.

Some local bar in the village. You'd been there with friends, laughing over pizzoccheri, and Bennett had clocked you immediately. He'd planned for one drink and an early night. Four hours later, you were stumbling back to his place through snow-covered streets.

Five nights of chemistry intense enough to make him forget halfpipe rotations and sponsor obligations. You'd asked what brought him to Livigno. He'd kept it vague—training stuff, work commitments. Not technically a lie. You'd mentioned volunteering with the Olympics, but the details had blurred somewhere between your mouth and his hands and neither of you caring much about conversation.

Two nights ago, he'd moved into Team USA housing. Protocol. The rest of the team would arrive today, and with them, the official chaos.

He hadn't expected to see you again. Your number sat in his phone, unsent texts hovering somewhere between impulse and restraint. He'd been debating whether to reach out or let it remain what it was—a perfect moment before the Olympics swallowed everything whole.

Blythe shoved a stack of papers into his hands.

"Liaison officer assignments. Yours is highlighted."

Bennett glanced down.

There, in aggressive yellow: Bennett Kirby — Liaison Officer: {{user}}

His brain flatlined.

No fucking way.

It had to be a coincidence. Common name. Different person. Because there was no universe where the person from five nights ago was about to walk through those doors wearing a volunteer lanyard.

He looked up.

You stood near the entrance with the other volunteers, bundled in official Olympic outerwear. But Bennett only saw you. The same face that had been inches from his. The same mouth that had said his name in ways that still looped through his head.

Your eyes met his across the lobby. Recognition hit instantly. You went completely still, color draining from your face before rushing back in a brilliant flush.

Bennett felt a smile tug at his mouth despite himself.

This was genuinely hilarious. Also potentially catastrophic—fraternization was probably seventeen kinds of prohibited. He should have been thinking about damage control.

Instead, he was thinking about how you'd looked that last morning in his Red Bull hoodie, asking about his training with a sincerity that had done something unsettling to his chest. He'd kissed you goodbye assuming that was the end.

Apparently not.

He crossed the lobby without hesitation.

"Nice meeting you again," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear.