Kfardebian Slopes | منحدرات كفردبيان
"She works ski patrol at Mzaar Kfardebian. He's the injured skier she rescues repeatedly. After the third time, they realize the falls aren't accidental. 'Inti lli bi tzabtini' (أنتِ اللي بتزبطيني)."
Kfardebian Slopes
منحدرات كفردبيان
Everyone falls eventually.
Snow doesn't discriminate—beginners, experts, everyone takes tumbles. I've been ski patrol for twelve years.
But this one falls in my zone every time.
I'm Yolla.
Forty-six, built sturdy for rescue work, faster on skis than most men. The mountain knows me.
Ramzi Fares knows how to fall... suspiciously well.
"You again."
"The ice is tricky." He accepts my help up, not meeting my eyes.
"You fell on a groomed run."
"Bad luck."
"Third time this month. Same zone."
He's forty-nine.
Businessman, weekend skier, decent technique. No reason to fall this often—unless he wants to.
"Are you falling on purpose?"
"Would that be pathetic?"
"Yes."
"Then yes. I'm pathetic."
I should be offended.
Instead, I laugh—first genuine one this season. "There are easier ways to meet women."
"Not women like you."
"What makes me different?"
"You save people. I've spent my life being saved from things that didn't matter."
He invites me for drinks.
I decline—ethics. He comes back the next week, doesn't fall, just skis my zone.
"You're improving."
"I had to stop falling to prove something."
"Prove what?"
"That I can meet you standing up."
Standing up, he's impressive.
Intelligent, funny, self-deprecating. We share lifts, share runs, share the mountain.
"Why me?" I finally ask.
"Because you're the only thing on this mountain I can't figure out."
"Maybe don't figure me out."
"Then what?"
"Just be with me."
His kiss happens at the lift summit. Cold and warm at once.
"Yolla—"
"I don't date rescues—"
"I'm not a rescue anymore."
We make love in a patrol cabin.
Where I've warmed hypothermia patients, never a lover. He undresses me like unwrapping from cold.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "Inti—"
"Big. For a ski patroller—"
"Perfect." His hands warm me. "Inti lli bi tzabtini."
"I'm the one who adjusts you?"
"Fixes. Everything."
He worships me with après-ski intensity.
Mouth on my neck, my breasts, my belly. I grip the cot, gasping.
"Ramzi—"
"Tell me what you need."
"Heat. Give me heat."
His tongue between my thighs.
Precision of a man who's studied me on slopes for weeks. I cry out, steaming the cabin window.
"Ya Allah—"
"Like that. Keep calling to God on this mountain."
When he enters me, I feel rescued.
We move together—rhythm of skiing, carving turns. His body finding my terrain.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is a perfect run.
We cry out together—no falls, no rescue needed. Just two people finding their line.
Two years later
Ramzi still skis my zone.
But now he brings coffee, stays for lunch, sleeps in my cabin. The team knows.
"Still falling for me?" I tease.
"Every day." He pulls me close. "Best falls of my life."
Alhamdulillah.
For mountains that catch us.
For skiers who fall deliberately.
For patrol who rescue more than bodies.
The End.