Page 79 of On Thin Ice

“Well, I attempted to,” I said, reaching back to run my fingers through his messy hair. “No food, though. We’re going to have to go shopping unless you want to try an avocado and parmesan smoothie.”

He made a disgusted noise against my shoulder that turned into a laugh.

The sound unwound something tight in my chest, a knot I’d been carrying for days.

I shifted to face him, my heart doing that stupid flutter it always did when he looked at me with sleep-soft eyes. Sometimes I wondered if it would ever stop—this low-grade ache that formed every time he gazed at me like I was his favorite person in the world. Like he didn’t quite believe I was real.

Swallowing around my emotions, I held a mug out to him. “I think I got it right.”

He accepted the coffee with both hands, like it was something precious.“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmured, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. His eyes closed briefly in appreciation. “Mmm, perfect.”

“Given what’s going on in there—“ I lifted my mug to gesture toward the fridge and the sorry state of our provisions, “I fear we’re going to have to go shopping.”

I let the invitation hang between us, a small test I didn’t want to admit that I was giving.

It’d been a week since our fight and the rough makeup afterward. A week of sleeping together every night in the same bed, of driving to the arena in the same vehicle when we used to take separate cars, and a week of my toothbrush sitting on the bathroom counter next to his.

But it had also been a week of me waiting for him to bolt again. Of watching him flinch anytime a teammate mentioned the social media series or I stood too close to him.

Some foolish part of me insisted on keeping a tally of every time he saidyesto things like this, like I was quietly adding up proof that I mattered to him. That this was a relationship, and not just fucking on the down low.

“We should probably shower first.” The look he gave me over the rim of his mug suggested that it might take longer than expected.

I didn’t fully trust the heat in his eyes, not yet. Sex had never been our problem. It was everything outside the bedroom that tripped us up.

Still, when he looked at me like that, it was impossible to say no.

* * *

By the timewe left the house, it was creeping toward noon, the December sun warm against my skin as we strolled toward the co-op half a mile away. His fingers brushed against mine, just once, as we rounded the corner.

I didn’t reach for his hand. Didn’t let myself do more than smile and enjoy the moment for what it was. A quiet offering. A reminder that this—us—meant something to him, even if he still couldn’t show it when other people might be watching.

The co-op was small but well laid out, the air scented with freshly baked sourdough and prepared vegetarian entrees enveloping us as we stepped through the door. Hand-written chalk signs hung above displays of winter produce, and holiday garlands draped across the rafters, casting dappled shadows on the polished concrete floor. It was the kind of place where white people with dreadlocks and face tattoos stocked up on things like spelt berries, einkorn flour, and every kind of bean known to man.

“Keep Austin Weird” wasn’t just a saying for the people here; it was a manifesto, and I fucking loved this place.

The store wasn’t crowded—just a few shoppers quietly browsing, Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” through hidden speakers. Still, I caught the exact moment Ethan’s demeanor shifted. His shoulders inched upward, his spine straightening as though someone had yanked on an invisible string. The soft expression he’d worn all morning at home morphed into something carefully neutral, his eyes darting around the space, taking inventory of witnesses, before settling guiltily back on me.

I felt myself moving in response, putting an “appropriate” distance between us.

“Okay,” I said, pushing my disappointment down as I pulled out my phone to check the list I’d made. “We need eggs, obviously. Bread. And real fruit, not just those fruit-flavored sports drinks you’re obsessed with.”

“Those drinks contain electrolytes,” he countered, his fingers hovering over a few different different bread options before selecting a dark brown loaf, weighing it in his palm before placing it into the cart with precision rather than tossing it in the way I would have. A careful man, even in the smallest gestures.

I bumped my shoulder gently into his. “Rye? Seriously?"

“It’s rich in nutrients and has a low glycemic index,” he said, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

His eyes flicked past me to scan the shelves for his favorite nut butter, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, betraying the amusement he wouldn’t fully express outside of his house.

“You’re worse than my grandpa,” I said, my tone laced with fondness.

My parents might be assholes, but my mom’s dad Jerry was my best friend. Well, he would have been if a guy could be best friends with an octogenarian who only sometimes remembered you.

“Not all of us can eat like a frat bro and expect to stay in shape,” he chirped, his eyes darting to an older woman dressed in a kaftan standing at the end of the aisle. Seeing that she was absorbed in reading the ingredients listed on a cardboard box, he linked our pinkies together. “I have to watch my nutrition carefully.”

The gesture surprised me, small as it was. A week ago, he would have never risked even minimal contact in public.

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