The rest of the afternoon feels like a blur, a loud, bright, dizzy blur. Everyone is talking at once. Everyone is hugging me. Everyone is smiling. And Evan? He never leaves my side. Not once. His arm stays around my waist as we walk through the arena. His hand finds mine every time someone pulls me away for a picture. When we sit down for dinner with both our families, he rests his hand on my knee under the table, steady, warm, grounding.Every time I look at him, he’s already looking at me. Like he can’t believe I’m real. Like he doesn’t want to miss a second.After dinner, after the congratulations and the photos and the endless retelling of the jump, he drives me home. Chicago fades behind us, the highway stretching out in front of us, the sky turning dark.It’s quiet in the car, not awkward, just… full. I watch the lights blur past the window before finally asking the question that’s been sitting in my chest since the podium. “So,” I say softly, “about the kiss.”He glances at me,
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