Weeks passed by.
The plane touched down with a jolt that broke the last thread of sleep I'd managed.
Outside the window, the skyline was a wash of silver and blue, Los Angeles at its coldest hour, where even the sunlight looked tired.
It was early morning.
The air outside the airport was thin and dry, the kind that carried the scent of fuel and rain that never really fell.
I adjusted my coat, slipped on my sunglasses, and moved through the crowd with practiced detachment.
Every step felt heavier than it should have, not because of the luggage, but because silence tends to grow heavier when you've been holding it in too long.
The driver waiting by the exit held a placard with my name: Ms. Aurora Zobel-Lazaro.
I almost told him to drop the last part, but it wasn't worth the energy.
"Welcome to Los Angeles, ma'am," he greeted.
I nodded once. "Thank you."
The ride to the hotel was quiet.
The city rolled by like a movie I wasn't part of, endless freeways, pale skies, strangers glued to their phones.
I watched without watching, my mind somewhere else: home, the arena, Calix's smirk at the doorway yesterday morning.
I hated that his face followed me here.
The hotel was one of those glass towers that pretended to be warm but felt like an exhibition of wealth, sharp corners, spotless marble, flowers that smelled too perfect to be real.
The receptionist recognized me before I said a word. "Welcome, Mrs. Lazaro," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your husband already checked in earlier."
I froze for a fraction of a second. "My… husband?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Calix Lazaro. He said you'd be arriving soon."
Of course he did.
I gave the receptionist a polite smile that probably looked like indifference. "Thank you. Please have my luggage sent to my suite."
Room 2307 — top floor, corner unit, ocean view.
The door clicked open with a soft mechanical sound.
Inside, the place was spacious, quiet, drenched in muted light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything was in order, except for one thing: a black jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa.
Calix's.
I sighed, set my bag down, and walked past it.
I didn't bother asking where he was.
If he wanted to follow me halfway across the world, that was his problem.
I headed straight for the bedroom, peeled off my coat, and stood by the window for a while. The ocean stretched endlessly below, calm, deceptive, like peace pretending to be permanent.
Then, a voice behind me. "You're early."
I didn't flinch. "You're intrusive."
Calix stepped into the light, barefoot, holding a mug of coffee, wearing the kind of grin that could only belong to someone who never worried about anything.
"You're welcome, by the way," he said. "I made coffee."
"I don't drink coffee from strangers."
"Good thing I'm not a stranger."
"Debatable."
He laughed, took a sip, and leaned against the wall. "So this is it, huh? Your big pre-competition getaway. Thought I'd come keep you company."
"I didn't ask for company."
"You never do."
I turned slightly, eyes meeting his reflection in the window glass. "And yet you still show up."
"Maybe I like the challenge."
I gave him nothing in return, no smirk, no glare, just silence.
The kind that made people uneasy, though Calix only seemed amused by it.
He moved closer, setting his mug down on the table. "Relax, Aurora. I'm not here to bother you. I just thought it'd be… interesting. Watching you be perfect on another continent."
I faced him fully now, voice even. "Don't mistake my silence for permission."
His lips twitched. "You really don't miss me, huh?"
"Miss you?" I repeated softly, almost to myself. "That would require attachment. And I don't do that."
He studied me for a moment, long enough that I could almost feel his stare.
Then he smiled again, the kind that said you'll never admit it, but I got under your skin anyway.
I turned away before he could speak again. "I need to rest. If you're staying, do it quietly."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, mock salute in his tone.
I didn't look back as I walked into the bedroom.
The bed was crisp, untouched. I slipped under the sheets, the faint hum of the city below fading into nothing.
Sleep didn't come easily, but it came eventually,heavy and strange, like falling into water.
—
The sheets were cool, the room dim.
I could almost believe I was somewhere else, someone else.
But the faint clatter from the kitchen ruined the illusion.
Calix.
I sat up, gathered my hair into a loose knot, and slipped on the hotel robe.
The smell of toast drifted in, mixed with fresh coffee and the faint sweetness of oranges.
When I stepped out of the bedroom, he was exactly where I expected him to be, barefoot again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, humming to himself like mornings had never once betrayed him.
He noticed me but didn't speak. Instead, he gestured toward the counter.
Two plates. Eggs, toast, fruit, nothing complicated.
Typical of him: effortless in the things that didn't matter.
"I ordered room service," he said finally. "Didn't want you to starve before your… whatever it is you do all day."
I poured myself a glass of water. "You mean practice."
"Right. That."
I sat, not thanking him, just eating in silence. He watched for a while, amused by my lack of reaction.
"You always eat like you're planning a war," he said.
"Discipline," I answered.
"You should try to enjoy it sometime."
I didn't respond.
He leaned against the counter, studying me. "You really don't take breaks, do you? Even now, you look like you're competing with the sun."
"I didn't come here for leisure."
"That's obvious."
I looked up, meeting his eyes briefly. "Then why are you here?"
He smiled. "Maybe I wanted to see what you look like outside your armor."
I took another sip of water. "Disappointed?"
"Not even close."
He grinned, but there was something quieter behind it this time, something that didn't fit his usual ease.
I ignored it, stood up, and gathered my hair again.
"I'm going out," I said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere you're not."
He laughed softly, not offended. "Fair enough."
—
By the time I left, the city had shaken itself fully awake. \
The air smelled like asphalt and coffee.
I walked without direction, hands in my coat pockets, eyes on the endless stretch of glass buildings.
For once, I wasn't thinking about perfection or pressure or the way my father's voice still echoed somewhere in the back of my mind. I was just… moving.
Freedom, it seemed, didn't always look like happiness.
Sometimes it just looked like walking without being followed by expectations.
When I returned hours later, the suite was quiet again.
Calix was gone, but his jacket was still there on the couch, a careless reminder that he'd been real and not just another interruption.
I hung it neatly on the rack.
Then I poured myself a glass of wine, stood by the window, and watched the horizon fade into night.