Page 47 of On Thin Ice

Bell’s face went still for half a second before his easygoing grin slid back into place, though I noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The muscle in his jaw twitched, a tell I was beginning to recognize. “Yeah,” he said tightly. “That asshole.”

Chet snorted, flicking his beady-eyed stare my way and then back to Bell, the contempt in his gaze palpable. “Can’t imagine what it’s like living with him. Harrison’s got that whole intense serial killer vibe going on. Bet you sleep with one eye open.”

My fingers curled around my phone so tightly that the case creaked in protest. His words shouldn’t have stung—I’d cultivated that unapproachable image deliberately—but they did. I wasn’t a deranged psychopath, I was just … reserved. Careful. Scared.

“Nah, Ethan’s a good guy,” Bell said, a slight edge creeping into his voice.

And because Chet couldn’t ever leave well enough alone, he turned his smarmy grin on me. “What about you, Harry?”

His use of the nickname that only he ever used felt like a deliberate provocation. It made my skin crawl, reminded me of schoolyard bullies from decades ago.

“Bell bringing all his dates home must drive you insane.”

It was bullshit like this that kept guys like me locked in the closet. The implication that Bell’s sexuality was an inconvenience I shouldn’t have to endure. Worse, that just because Bell was bisexual, he fucked anything and everything with little to no discernment. I didn’t know how Bell or Miller managed to live so out in the open when people like Chet were always looking for ways to tear them down.

Bell’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once before he leaned back in his seat with a lazy smile. The expression was pure predator, though few would recognize the danger in it. “You jealous, Chet?” he asked smoothly, his tone deceptively light. “Mad you’re not my type?”

A couple of the rookies snickered, and Chet scowled, his face turning bright red, the flush creeping up from his collar to stain his cheeks and ears. He turned away briskly and flopped back into his seat with more force than necessary. “Fuck you, fairy,” I heard him mutter in response.

My heart thundered in my chest, that word unearthing something dark and half-buried that I’d spent years trying to forget. A flash of voices and pain surged forth before I could shove it back down. The recycled air of the cabin suddenly seemed too thin, insufficient for my lungs.

Bell’s eyes found mine across the aisle, his smile fading as he registered my expression. His brow furrowed slightly as he mouthed, “You okay?” so subtly that no one else would notice.

Something wordless passed between us, a silent communication that existed outside of language. Not just camaraderie among teammates now, but a different kind of reassurance—I see you and I’m here.

I managed a small nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Bell held my gaze for a moment longer before giving an almost imperceptible nod as the plane’s engines roared to life and the flight attendants completed their pre-flight checklist.

I leaned my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and focused on steadying my breathing. One in, one out.

My phone buzzed in my hand, and I opened my eyes to read the notification on my screen.

Bell

We need to talk when we get home.

Five simple words that sent my heart rate skyrocketing again. In my experience, nothing good ever followed that phrase. Especially not after someone had seen you at your most vulnerable.

I looked across the aisle, but Bell had his headphones on, eyes closed, his face turned toward the window.

The plane taxied down the runway and lifted off the ground, my stomach dropping with the ascent, and I couldn’t help but feel like even though I was soaring high into the clouds, I should be preparing myself for a fall.

CHAPTER12

ETHAN

The second we stepped through the door, I came to an abrupt stop. Everything was exactly as we’d left it, yet nothing felt the same.

The familiar details—the faint scent of my cologne clinging to the coat I’d tossed over the entryway bench, the sharp tang of lemon polish rising from the hardwood floors, the line of Bell’s sneakers against the baseboards, the distant hum of the fridge—should have been a comfort.

But they weren’t.

I swallowed hard and tried to tell myself this was still home.

Butt felt different. Foreign. Like I was seeing everything through a new lens, colors too bright, edges too sharp.

Or maybe that was just me.

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