Page 78 of On Thin Ice

“What can I do?” I asked. “Tell me what you need from me.”

He was quiet for a moment, weighing his answer. “I need you to talk to me. No more shutting me out.” He took a deep breath. “And I need you to be honest with yourself about what you want. About who you are.”

The implication was clear—he needed me to stop hiding. Not just from him, but from the world.

“I’m not asking you to make some grand announcement,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “But I can’t be your dirty little secret forever, Ethan. I promised myself I’d never go back in the closet again.”

The thought of coming out terrified me—made my body literally clench with panic—but losing Bell scared me just as much … if not more.

“I don’t know if I can give you a timeline, but I promise I’ll get there. For you. For us.”

Something in his expression softened, and he finally leaned down to kiss me—gently this time, his earlier anger replaced with cautious tenderness.

“We’re not fixed,” he murmured against my lips. “But we’re not broken, either.”

It wasn’t complete forgiveness. It wasn’t an easy resolution. But as he settled against my chest, his body warm and solid against mine, I knew it was a beginning. A chance to prove myself. To be the man he deserved.

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, knowing I’d been given a gift I didn’t deserve.

“I’m going to try, I swear,” I whispered into his hair.

He didn’t make any promises in return. Not yet. But he burrowed closer, his arm tightening around my waist, and for now, that was enough.

CHAPTER18

BELL

The hum of the fridge greeted me as I padded barefoot into the kitchen, the cold tile sending a small shiver up my spine. December in Austin wasn’t exactly freezing—especially compared to Maine—but a chill had definitely settled into the house while we’d been away.

I grabbed my old Thackeray sweatshirt from the hook by the back door, pulling it over my head before rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand and yawning.

A week. That was how long it had been since he’d come crawling into my bedroom in the middle of the night, since I’d made him beg, since I’d fucked him like I was trying to fuck away my own hurt. A week of cautious glances and careful touches and trying to find our way back to what we had before.

I pulled the fridge door open and rooted around inside, looking for something to make for breakfast. Unfortunately, after several days on the road, all we had was an empty egg carton, half a bag of shredded parmesan cheese, and a lonely avocado that was sunken in on itself on one side.

“So omelettes are out,” I muttered.

We’d gotten in late last night from Vegas after an away game that had left the team buzzing from our win. On the drive home from the airport, Ethan had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, the sound of his soft snores filling the cabin. I’d walked us inside and stripped him down to his boxers like the doting boyfriend I was before crawling into bed beside him. He was still asleep now.

I reached for my phone, tapping open my favorite music streaming service and scrolling to the holiday playlist I’d been listening to all week. The soft sounds of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” flowed from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter, just loud enough to hum along to. When I glanced up at my reflection in the window, I caught myself smiling like an idiot.

I filled the kettle and pulled down the beans Ethan had picked up from the local roaster he liked, wincing at how loud the grinder sounded. The rich, nutty aroma began filling the kitchen as I poured the water in circles over the grounds, watching them bloom just the way he had shown me.

Before moving in with him, I’d never bothered with real, artisanal coffee—just grabbed whatever was available at the student union or from the coffee cart outside my PoliSci seminar. But here I was, carefully counting the seconds as I poured because I knew he liked his coffee strong but not bitter.

Maybe this was what peace felt like. Being in someone’s house and calling it home.

Or was this the calm before the storm?

I’d just finished adding a splash of cream to my mug when I heard the soft padding of feet behind me.

“Morning,” came his sleep-rough voice.

I spun to see Ethan leaning in the doorway, wearing old flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt that clung to his chest in all the right ways. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and there was a pillow crease marking his cheek.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” I said, unable to keep the warmth from my voice despite my lingering doubts.

He shuffled toward me, and pressed his forehead against my shoulder. “You made coffee.”

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