Page 114 of On Thin Ice

But saying it back felt like giving up control. Those three words would surrender the last piece of myself I still commanded.

“Bell,” I said, emotion making my voice falter.

I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat, trying desperately to find the right words … any words that could bridge the impossible distance between what I felt and what I could offer him.

Because right now, I couldn’t offer him hope.

Not when I couldn’t give him what he needed.

What kind of an asshole tells someone they love them, but still leaves? What kind of man says, “I love you, too, but not enough to overcome my fears,” or “I love you, too, but I need you to keep loving me in secret”?

Love had never protected me before.

Love hadn’t stopped those boys from beating the ever-loving shit out of me.

Love hadn’t stopped my father from telling me to lie.

Love hadn’t kept me safe.

But the look on Bell’s face as he waited for me to speak—part hope, part resignation—made something crack open inside me.

Because Bell’s love was different.

It wasn’t conditional, or at least it didn’t feel that way. He loved me even knowing how broken I was. Understanding that I might never be fixed.

He loved me unreservedly and without shame.

It was the bravest thing I’d ever seen.

My keys felt suddenly heavy in my hand.

Before I could register what I was doing, I set them down on the counter with a softclink, the sound of surrender echoing in the space between us.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained guarded. Suspicion clouded his gaze, mingled with a fragile hesitation. He stood at the edge of belief, afraid to step forward, afraid to trust what he was seeing.

“You’re staying?” he asked, his voice rough, uncertain.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet.

The magnitude of my choice felt overwhelming—both what I was giving up and what I was holding onto.

He exhaled, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of the past hour. Of the past three months. He didn’t move toward me, though. He stood his ground, and it hit me—he was waiting for me to go to him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I said, the words feeling inadequate as I took that first step forward … and then another.

“Do what?”

“Be loved.” I looked down at my hands, flexing them open and closed. “Be open. Live my truth. Our truth.”

“No one’s asking you to put a billboard up in Times Square, E.” The corner of his mouth lifted in subtle amusement, his words a call back to the billboard he’d be on if the REND campaign was successful. “But there’s this thing called middle ground,” he continued, packing that wry smile away. “Between hiding completely and telling the whole world.”

“But you said?—”

“I said I want you to acknowledge me and what we are to each other,” he interjected. “That doesn’t mean we need to make some big announcement. This isn’t one of my romance novels. I don’t need a grand gesture. I just don’t want to be your dirty secret anymore.”

The words stung, but I couldn’t deny the truth of them. I’d treated him like something shameful, something to be hidden away.

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