Chapter 3: Rising Curiosity (Jeff)
Two days later the weather had turned sharper, a thin layer of fresh powder overnight that made the slopes look pristine and a little more treacherous. My legs still carried the dull ache from the first sessions, but it was the good kind of ache, the kind that reminded me I was moving, doing something real. I'd spent the previous day on my own, riding the beginner lift a dozen times, practicing the linked turns Jonas had drilled into me. No instructor, no pressure, just me and the mountain. I fell twice, ate snow once, but each time I got up faster, laughing under my breath at how ridiculous I must have looked. By the end of that solo afternoon I could string five or six turns together without stopping. Small victory, but it felt huge.
This morning I arrived at the meeting point early, helmet buckled, poles in hand, ready. The beginner area was busier now, weekend skiers mixing with the mid-week crowd, but Jonas was easy to spot. Red jacket, blond hair catching the low sun, lean frame cutting clean arcs as he warmed up on a short traverse. He saw me and skied over, stopping with a neat parallel spray of snow.
"Morning, Jeff. You look like you survived yesterday without me."
"Barely," I said, grinning. "Did the run solo. Managed not to die."
His blue eyes lit up. "Proud of you. Let's see what you've got, then. We're moving up today. Slightly steeper green run, still groomed, but you'll feel the speed."
We rode the T-bar together. Side by side, skis clacking gently. He asked about my solo day, listened as I described the falls and the small breakthroughs. His attention felt genuine, not just polite instructor chatter. When I finished he nodded. "That's the best way to learn. Alone time on the snow builds confidence faster than any lesson."
At the top he demonstrated first: smooth, controlled turns, body angled forward, poles swinging in rhythm. "Watch the rhythm. Don't fight the mountain, flow with it. Your turn."
I pushed off. The pitch was noticeably steeper than before. Gravity pulled harder, speed built quicker. My first turn felt sloppy, skis chattering, but I recovered, shifted weight, carved the second one cleaner. By the third I was smiling inside the helmet. Jonas skied just ahead and to the side, backward again, calling pointers. "Good edge! Now flatten a bit more... yes! Look ahead, not down."
Halfway down he stopped us at a wide, flat spot. "Quick correction." He skied close, close enough that I could smell the faint citrus of his sunscreen mixed with cold air. His gloved hands went to my hips, firm but careful, adjusting my stance. "Hips forward more. You're sitting back a little. Feel that?"
His fingers pressed lightly into the sides of my jacket, thumbs guiding my pelvis forward. The touch was professional, necessary for balance, but it lingered a second longer than it needed to. Warmth spread through the layers, straight to my core. My breath caught. I blamed the altitude.
"Yeah," I managed. "Got it."
He stepped back, but not far. "Try again from here."
The rest of the run was smoother. I linked turns with growing rhythm, speed picking up until wind whistled past my ears. When we reached the bottom I was breathing hard, adrenaline singing in my veins. Jonas unclipped and gave me a fist bump. "That was solid. You're progressing faster than most."
"Thanks to you."
"Thanks to you showing up and doing the work." He pulled off his glove and ran a hand through his hair. "Coffee? There's a little hut just over there. My treat. We can debrief."
I hesitated only a second. "Yeah. Sounds good."
The hut was small, wood-paneled, steam rising from the espresso machine behind the counter. We took a table by the window overlooking the lower slopes. Jonas ordered two cappuccinos and a couple of pastries. When he sat across from me his knee brushed mine under the narrow table. He didn't move it right away. Neither did I.
We talked easily at first: the snow conditions, which runs to avoid tomorrow, the best après-ski spots in Corvara. Then the conversation drifted, as it had before, to more personal ground.
"So," he said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "you said you quit your job. What happens after this month? Back to DC?"
I shrugged. "No plan yet. That's kind of the point. I've spent too long having plans. Thought I'd see what happens when I don't have one."
He studied me over the rim of his cup. "Brave."
"Or stupid."
"Sometimes the same thing." A small smile. "I get it, though. I keep my life loose on purpose. Berlin in summer, here in winter. No mortgage, no nine-to-five, no... expectations. It's freeing. But it can be lonely too."
The word hung between us. Lonely. I felt it like a hook in my chest. "Yeah. That part I know well."
He leaned forward slightly. "You ever think about why? Why no long-term thing ever stuck?"
The question was direct, but not prying. Just curious. I took a slow sip, buying time. "Never really felt the spark, I guess. Dated women, good people, but it always felt... mechanical. Like I was going through the motions. Sex was okay, but never..." I trailed off, searching for the word. "Electric."
Jonas nodded slowly. "I know that feeling. Took me a while to figure out what I actually wanted. Turns out it was guys. Older guys, mostly. Ones who know themselves, who don't play games." He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, but his eyes stayed on mine. "Once I stopped forcing it, things got a lot clearer. And a lot hotter."
Heat crept up my neck. Not embarrassment, exactly. Something else. Curiosity. His knee was still against mine under the table. Deliberate now, I thought. Testing.
I didn't pull away.
Instead I met his gaze. "Sounds like you've got it figured out."
"Not everything." His voice dropped a fraction. "But enough to know when something feels... interesting."
The word landed heavy. Interesting.
We sat in silence for a beat, the hum of the hut around us fading. My pulse thumped in my ears. His hand rested on the table, close to mine. Not touching, but near enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
Then the barista called another order, breaking the moment. Jonas leaned back, took a sip, smiled like nothing had shifted. "We should head back out. One more run before the lesson ends?"
"Yeah," I said, voice a little rougher than before. "One more."
We skied the same run again. This time I felt every shift of weight, every carve, like my body was tuned to a new frequency. Jonas stayed close, his corrections coming with light touches: a hand on my lower back to adjust posture, fingers brushing my outer thigh to remind me of edge pressure. Each contact sent a small jolt through me. Not just instructional anymore. Not for me, at least.
When the lesson ended we unclipped near the base. Snow dusted his shoulders, caught in the blond strands escaping his helmet. He looked at me, eyes bright.
"Tomorrow?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," I answered.
He held my gaze a second longer. "Good. Wear something warmer. Forecast says colder."
Then he was gone, skiing off toward the instructor hut, leaving me standing there with coffee still warm in my stomach and a low, unfamiliar heat pooling somewhere deeper.
Back at the farm that evening I stood under the shower longer than necessary, hot water pounding my shoulders. My mind replayed the touches, the knee press, the way he'd said interesting like it was a promise.
I closed my eyes and let my hand drift down. It didn't take long. When I came it was with his name on a quiet exhale, surprise and something like relief mixing in my chest.
Whatever this was, it wasn't nothing anymore.
... To be continued
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