Chapter Text
Three months later.
Snow was settling over the world in a thin, almost weightless blanket—not a storm, not a blizzard, but softly, as if someone invisible were tiptoeing across the meadows, arenas, and stable roofs. The scent of pine and mulled wine had woven itself into the air back at the start of December, but now, a week before Christmas, even the walls of the barracks seemed to breathe a festive kind of weariness.
Lexa stood on a stool in the corner of the living room, pulling a garland onto a hook under the ceiling, and for the third time in ten minutes scratched herself on the wire. She bit her lip to keep from swearing.
“Careful,” came Anya’s lazy voice from behind her. “Those garlands nearly killed me last year. They’re alive. Possessed by the spirit of a clumsy electrician.”
Lexa glanced down at her.
“Maybe you were just holding them the wrong way?”
“Mhm. I’m holding everything the wrong way lately. Like the steering wheel, for example.”
She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes of ornaments and tinsel, with a Christmas wreath on her head. She seemed to be seriously considering it as a hat alternative.
“Take that off, you look like a Christmas tree in depression,” Lexa snorted, deftly tossing the garland onto the next hook.
“As you wish, Snow Queen. Though I can’t help but notice—you seem suspiciously… tolerant of decorations this year.”
Lexa stepped down from the stool and wiped her hands on her dark trousers.
“I just don’t want you to blow up the house with a short circuit. That’s all.”
“Sure you don’t,” Anya squinted. “You even hung stockings over the fireplace. Admit it—you believe in Santa.”
“No,” Lexa replied curtly, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You just look like the kind of person who’d be shocked if there wasn’t a gift under the pillow on New Year’s.”
“That’s because, unlike all of you here, I grew up in a country where people celebrate Proper Holidays.” Anya threw a glittery snowflake at her. “New Year isn’t just salads and a tree—it’s… that feeling that you survived. That you can start over.”
Lexa caught the snowflake in midair and slowly lowered it into her palm. She looked at it longer than necessary.
“Do you still have that habit—making a wish when the clock strikes midnight?”
“I do. Even if I have to put on a YouTube video of the chimes.” Anya stood, walked over to the box, and pulled out a glass ornament—old, with worn silver. “Want to hang this one?”
Lexa took it carefully, as though it might shatter at the lightest touch.
“It’s my grandmother’s favourite ornament. We used to hang it on the tree every year. When we emigrated, I brought it with me,” Anya explained, her voice a little softer.
“Then you hang it,” Lexa handed it back. “You know best where it belongs.”
They hung it on the central branch. Stood there in silence for a minute. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and cloves. Somewhere in the background, a jazz cover of Let It Snow was playing, and even Lexa—who couldn’t stand Christmas clichés—felt a small wave of calm and didn’t want to turn the music off.
“You have changed a bit,” Anya suddenly said, as if in passing. “Like you’ve stopped keeping your shield up 24/7. Maybe it’s time to get a cat?”
“I don’t live alone,” Lexa shot her a look. “You’d overfeed it and get it hooked on true crime shows.”
“And you’d train it with discipline and diet food. Perfect balance,” Anya smirked. “But seriously… I like seeing you like this. A little less iron. Just don’t get too normal—it’ll get boring.”
“Don’t worry,” she said quietly, looking at the tree. “It definitely won’t be boring.”
They finished decorating the house closer to nine. The rooms filled with the diffused light of garlands and something almost childlike—as if time itself had slowed for a moment. Lexa stood by the window, watching the lights flicker on the spruce in the yard. Anya had gone to call her parents—in Russian, with that soft accent, with an intonation Lexa could always recognise from afar: there was something special in it, indivisible, hers.
The house went quiet. Almost too quiet.
Lexa didn’t like silence—or rather, she didn’t like what came with it. Thoughts. Feelings. The spaces in between.
She stepped out onto the terrace, taking with her a wool scarf and a cup of something hot and tart—tea, or maybe cider, she didn’t remember exactly what she’d poured, she’d just wanted warmth. The air stung her face—not with frost, but like the touch of snow to skin: quiet, damp, weightless. The night stretched over the club grounds, dense and soundless, broken only by the faint crackle of garlands and the occasional snort of horses in the distance.
Snow was falling in large, lazy flakes that didn’t drop so much as drifted in their own rhythm. It settled on the steps, the railings, Lexa’s shoulders, melted into her hair. She leaned against a wooden column, wrapped the scarf higher, and dialled a number.
The line rang only briefly.
“Hi,” Evangeline’s voice was warm, as if freshly breathed into the receiver, “I was just looking through old photos from the tournament and suddenly thought of you.”
Lexa smirked but didn’t say it out loud.
“Intuition?”
“Or a mild addiction. Your pick.”
“We just finished decorating the tree. Anya staged a small revolution about how ‘a proper New Year should smell like tangerines and look like a Soviet cartoon.’ I held my ground, but the number of garlands doubled.”
“So you’ve got a near Catholic–Orthodox symbiosis going on,” Evangeline laughed softly. “I’m in my parents’ living room too. My father’s weaving wreaths out of fir branches, my mother’s trying to teach everyone to drink mulled wine from crystal glasses. Don’t ask. The atmosphere is ‘Versailles preparing for the apocalypse.’”
Lexa narrowed her eyes, looking in through the window from outside: the room glowed with soft warm light, garlands reflected in the glass, snowflakes clung to the sill, and inside—decorated, cosy, warm—it was as if it existed in another dimension where everything was calm, safe, and simple.
“Our house looks like a photo from a Christmas Pinterest board,” she said aloud, almost without thinking.
There was a pause on the other end. Then:
“What a shame you’re living that romantic moment alone.”
Lexa tightened her grip on the cup, glancing toward the fences drowned in white.
“Not sure I’m built for romantic moments,” she said dryly, but for the first time in a long while her voice carried not just detachment, but a faint warm sadness.
“Maybe not. But they seem to find you anyway.” Evangeline’s voice was soft, almost weightless, like the snow itself. “I hope when I come back, we get to live through one of them together. Or at least try.”
Lexa bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know how to answer things like that. Not because she didn’t want to—just… she’d lived too long in the habit of sharpness, invulnerability, sarcasm. But with Evangeline, it was getting harder.
“Do you have snow in New York too?” she asked, shifting the topic without breaking the warmth.
“It started this afternoon. I walked in the park until my fingers went numb. I thought about how you’d comment on my illogical autumn heeled boots.”
“I’d probably just silently hand you thermal insoles.”
“How caring.” Evangeline chuckled, and Lexa heard her take a sip of something—most likely red wine. “I miss your silent reactions. They’re always more accurate than words.”
For a moment, the line fell quiet. Comfortable. Unstrained.
“When are you coming back to Colorado?” Lexa asked quietly.
“Probably at the end of January.”
“Will you be training for the tournament?”
“And not only that.” A pause. “I don’t want to lose this… between us. Even if you’re not ready for more yet.”
She didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t hang up either.
Lexa looked into the darkness. Snow settled on her shoulders, leaving cold, almost living points—like marks. She felt the cup’s warmth ebbing away, her fingers starting to go numb, but for some reason she didn’t move.
Evangeline’s words—“I hope when I come back, we get to live through one of them together”—had struck too precisely. There was no pressure in them, and that was exactly what threw her. No one else got this close.
What if she really did come back? What if these weren’t just words?
But saying anything would mean admitting she was waiting. And she wasn’t waiting. She had no right to wait.
“Lexa?..” Evangeline’s voice suddenly sounded almost unsure. As if she herself regretted saying too much.
“I’m here,” Lexa replied. Calm. Even.
But inside, somewhere deep, her heart was beating louder than it should have been, and the echoes of a hope she’d been driving away for so long were quietly starting to spread through her.
The snow kept falling.
And inside—despite all her resistance—something shifted.
“You’re going, Lex. And don’t argue,” Anya didn’t put a period in her sentence with words but with a look. The kind of look Lexa could resist only out of principle. And principles were on holiday today. “You have the day off, go take a walk, see something other than stables and fields.”
“That’s not like you,” Lexa smirked, pulling off her gloves. “You usually push for three training sessions a day and say that ‘routine matters more than emotions.’”
“You’ve been on a routine since May. And emotions…” Anya pressed her lips together and tilted her head. “You’re pretty weak on those, to be honest.”
Lexa rolled her eyes but reluctantly nodded. And so it happened — an hour later she was stepping out of the car in the city center, pushing her hood back and breathing in the cold air, scented with cotton candy, pine, and frost.
December wrapped the streets of Colorado like an illustration from a winter fairytale. Bright shop windows, garlands, music, the smell of gingerbread. Everything felt a little staged, as if the city itself was playing a role in some movie. But, to Lexa’s surprise, she… liked it. A little.
She walked the streets, bought a couple of books at a bookstore — one of them she had already read, but the cover was different, and that was enough. Then she wandered into a shop with Christmas cards and picked a few without any clear recipient. Just… because.
By lunchtime she was cold — her knees ached from it, her fingers were numb. Lexa turned a corner and walked into a small café at random, its warm light spilling onto the street, a display filled with miniature pies.
The place was almost empty. Ordering bergamot tea and almond cookies, she settled by the window and opened her book. Inside, everything slowed. The hum of the street stayed outside. Time stopped running again — right until a shadow entered her line of sight.
“Excuse me…” said someone with a slightly mocking, soft voice. “Would you have a minute for a quick interview?”
Lexa didn’t react right away — too absorbed in the page. When she did look up, she exhaled automatically, ready to refuse. Her brows knit — and froze.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” slipped out before she could stop herself.
Evangelina stood opposite, leaning on the back of the chair next to her. Her hair was tousled slightly by the wind, her cheeks pink from the frost. Her smile — impossibly wide.
“Surpriiise,” she drew the word out, as if she’d rehearsed the moment.
Lexa stared at her, narrowing her eyes. Part of her wanted to bury herself back in the book and pretend this visit didn’t exist. The other part could already hear her own heartbeat, a touch too fast.
“I wanted to do this differently, but then I saw you in the café window.”
“By accident?”
“Almost,” Evangelina said without blinking. “Almost on purpose.”
Lexa shook her head, leaned back in her chair, and slowly took a sip of tea.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you look like a typical Brit: book and tea…” Evangelina leaned forward, peering at the cup in her hands, “with a taste of… primness?”
Lexa rolled her eyes but allowed herself the faintest smile.
“Bergamot.”
Lexa looked out the window. Snow was drifting gently down to the street, covering the sidewalks with a thin layer of white. People with shopping bags, children with candy canes, dogs in ridiculous sweaters — it all seemed to belong to another world. Warmer, simpler, without constant battle.
“Don’t you get tired of following me around?” she tossed, without turning back.
Evangelina laughed — quietly, as if she knew how absurd that sounded.
“Following you? Isn’t that a bit dramatic? Maybe I just like ‘accidentally’ finding you in unexpected places.”
“Remarkable skill. Considering I’ve been here less than an hour.”
“Maybe I’m psychic. Or I just missed you.”
Lexa finally turned. There was no anger in her eyes — only a touch of doubt, as if she was still checking whether this wasn’t a dream.
“You’re always too theatrical.”
“And you’re always too serious. Someone has to balance that.”
Evangelina sat down beside her, nodding at the cup of tea.
“I was sure that after two months of solitude you’d be drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.”
“It’s not solitude,” Lexa cut in — not too sharply.
“No?” Evangelina raised a brow. “And who do you share all these… atmospheric moments with? A Christmas tree? A horse?”
A pause. This time — warm. Lexa gave the faintest shrug.
“With silence. It just… lets me breathe.”
“And am I interrupting?” Evangelina asked more quietly now, without her usual smile.
Lexa thought for a second before answering.
“No. Not right now.”
The pause hung between them. Evangelina watched her closely but didn’t push. This time — she truly didn’t.
“Maybe this time will be different,” she said so calmly it was almost inaudible.
Lexa looked at her — long, searching. As if trying to figure out how far she could let someone who had already been too close.
Evangelina leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, rolling her eyes deliberately, theatrically, like someone being accused of laughing too loudly in a library.
“You act like I’m some sort of cyclone. Destroyed your life, then came back to see if anything grew from the ruins.”
Lexa raised a brow.
“Didn’t destroy it. But you definitely know how to make an entrance. And disappear — too.”
“Hm. Probably because you never asked me to stay.”
Lexa lowered her eyes. For a second, maybe two — no more. But Evangelina noticed. Of course she noticed.
“Why did you come now?” Lexa asked. Not sharply, but directly. Like a shot — precise, measured.
Evangelina tilted her head. Her lips slid into a lazy, almost defiant smile.
“And you really have no idea? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I am. I just don’t like guessing. Especially when it’s about people I can’t read,” Lexa leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“God, you’re boring.” Evangelina shook her head slightly and raised a finger. “Wait, don’t get offended. It’s a compliment. The boring ones are the ones holding a volcano inside. Me… I’ve always been hopeless at restraint.”
“Which certainly explains your sudden arrival.”
“I just realized I didn’t want to spend Christmas in New York, listening to my mother complain about her dog’s choreographer. Or my father discussing how much it costs to buy a governor.” She rolled her eyes. “I wanted… something else.”
“Hot chocolate with marshmallows?” Lexa asked dryly.
“Maybe.” Evangelina lowered her voice. “Or silence. Or… someone you don’t have to prove anything to.”
Lexa leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed — not like a hunter, but like someone who had been holding on for too long and now wasn’t sure if they should lower their shield.
“You did say you’d be back in January.”
“I did. And, for the record, I’m a woman of my word. I just… decided to start January early.” Evangelina smirked. “I wanted to show up at your arena, dramatically, with coffee, maybe a bow. But… I saw you in this café by chance. You were too charming — moody look, book, tea. So focused. I couldn’t resist.”
“I noticed. You literally approached like a hunter to prey.”
“And you didn’t even fight back.” Evangelina narrowed her eyes. “So you were expecting me?”
Lexa shook her head, but her lips twitched in the hint of a smile.
“Maybe I was just ready for surprises.”
“Perfect. Because I’m staying. Until the holidays are over. And yes,” Evangelina leaned closer, “I do want to spend Christmas… not alone. With the people I want to be with.”
For a moment, Lexa’s eyes clouded. She looked out the window again. Snow fell softly and endlessly, the streets shimmering with Christmas lights, and the moment suddenly felt strangely fragile.
“How many times have you done everything your own way?” she asked quietly.
“Always. But, Lexa…” Evangelina reached across the table and lightly touched her hand — not pushy, almost unnoticeable. “Sometimes I do it because I don’t know how else.”
Lexa didn’t pull away. She just looked at their almost-touching fingers, then into her eyes.
“Sounds like the beginning of a bad Christmas romcom.”
“Or a good one. Depends on how it ends.”
They fell silent.
And in that silence, in a café filled with the scent of pastries, the clink of dishes, and the muffled voices of other people, something between them shifted. Subtly, but undeniably.
Something really was beginning.
They drove toward the equestrian training center, a place both of them knew down to the smallest detail, but now—it seemed—cast in a new light. Outside the window, Christmas garlands and the occasional parked car passed by, while the cabin was filled with the warmth of the heater and Lexa’s steady, contained breathing. There was no music playing—Lexa almost never turned on the radio, especially on nights like this.
She drove with ease, confidently, as though it wasn’t just a skill but part of her language. Evangeline sat beside her in silence. Ever since they’d left the café, that rare, elusive kind of silence had settled between them—not tense, not awkward, but somehow dense and warm. They both fit inside it.
“Curious,” Evangeline was the first to break it. “How long can you stay quiet before you burst?”
Lexa didn’t turn her head, but a shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Until someone else speaks first.”
“Like who?”
“August. Or time.”
“Deep,” Evangeline drawled. “Too poetic for a girl who won’t even play music in the car.”
“I don’t want anyone dictating what I should be thinking about.”
“And here I thought you just didn’t like Christmas.”
“That’s not quite it,” Lexa replied after a pause. “I don’t like…the artificiality around it.”
“But you took me to a Christmas market.”
“I took myself for a walk. You just happened to be there.”
Evangeline laughed—short, low, almost with surprise. Then she looked at Lexa, her profile lit by streetlamps, and didn’t look away.
“You could at least pretend sometimes that you need someone.”
“I don’t need performances,” Lexa said evenly. “And as for who—that’s not really my question to answer.”
She turned onto the gravel road leading to the training center. The windows of the administrative building were still lit, but the surroundings were already quiet: the day was over, the evening had dropped its curtains.
When they pulled up to the hotel where Evangeline was staying, Lexa switched off the engine but left the headlights on. Evangeline began unbuckling her seatbelt, ready to get out. The door was already ajar, letting a ribbon of cold air slide inside.
“Wait,” Lexa said.
Evangeline stopped, looking at her questioningly. Lexa was staring ahead at the building, then slowly turned toward her.
“Don’t go yet. Come with me.”
“Where?”
“The stables.”
Evangeline narrowed her eyes, studying Lexa’s face as if searching for a catch.
“You’re serious?”
“I told you. Come on.”
“But you can’t stand it when people just…wander around in there.”
“I know,” Lexa said with a brief nod. “But right now—it’s not ‘people.’”
For a moment, Evangeline was silent. Then she quietly shut the door, slid the seatbelt back on, and settled in again as though she’d never been leaving.
“I knew Christmas with you would be special.”
“You haven’t seen August in night mode yet,” Lexa said with restrained calm, though her voice carried a flicker of irony now. She shifted into reverse and turned the car toward the side road behind the training buildings.
With every passing second, the tension between them was changing. It no longer resonated with sharp edges—on the contrary, it felt like a pull that neither was in a hurry to name. Just a pulse close by, warm and careful.
“Have you always known when someone is…not just anyone?” Evangeline asked suddenly.
Lexa gave a slight nod without looking.
“And have you always known how to make yourself into someone?”
“For you?” Evangeline clarified.
“For anyone.”
“Just not for you,” she murmured, but Lexa was already pulling into a parking spot by the side entrance. A faint light spilled from an upper window of the administrative building. Farther ahead, in the dimness, the outline of the stable complex was visible—bright windows, a lone streetlamp, snow crunching under the tires.
They got out almost at the same time. One door thudded shut, then the other. The air was frosty and fresh, scented with wood and straw. Lexa stepped forward first without looking back, but Evangeline followed without hesitation.
When they entered the building, warmth embraced them—not just physical warmth. The horses were sleeping or dozing in their stalls; somewhere there was the sound of hay being chewed, the soft huff of nostrils. The light was dim, diffused, like in a theater before the curtain rises.
Lexa walked slowly down the aisle, almost meditatively. She didn’t say anything—just let her fingers trail along the wooden partitions as if touching something familiar and beloved. At one point she stopped and motioned for Evangeline to come closer.
“He doesn’t bite,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Evangeline stepped closer, and from the stall emerged the familiar head of a black stallion. He didn’t snort. He just looked, calmly, almost studying her.
“This is August. He doesn’t accept everyone. But you—apparently, yes.”
“Jealous of him,” Evangeline murmured softly.
Lexa raised her brows slightly.
“He lives more simply than you think.”
“Maybe you should start, too.” She stepped nearer, reached out, and carefully touched August’s velvet nose. He stilled, then snorted—as if in agreement.
“You’ve never let me in here before,” she said quietly. “Not as some casual guest. Almost like…”
Lexa looked at her, her gaze a fraction lower than usual—not tense, but still cautious.
“Almost like I’m not afraid anymore,” she whispered.