Page 94 of On Thin Ice

“Hey,” I said, feigning offense. “I cooked the steaks you’re both devouring. Give mesomecredit.”

“Yes, baby,” Bell said automatically, patting my hand where it rested on the table next to my plate. “And they’re very?—”

He froze.

His eyes widened, the slip-up catching up with him mid-sentence.

“Good,” he finished, his voice cracking slightly.

A beat of silence followed, just long enough for the endearment to land.

If Marjorie noticed, she didn’t let on. She just smiled and made a soft tutting sound. “Like an old married couple.”

Bell’s gaze was locked on mine, his expression full of panic. Color crept into his cheeks, and he dragged his hand off mine and dropped his eyes to his plate. He looked like he hoped a hole would open up in the earth and swallow him whole.

The thing was, I should have been panicking, too.

Any other time, a moment like this would’ve made my chest go tight, my pulse spike, and my brain start spiraling.

But Iwasn’tpanicking. Not even close.

If anything, I felt … happy. Warm. Calm. Like something had clicked into place that had been misaligned for far too long. It was something steadier, quieter—a certainty settling into my bones.

The only reason my heart rate had ticked up was because I liked it when he called me baby.

Liked the way he said it, soft and playful and a little distracted—like it slipped out not because he wasn’t thinking, but because he didn’t have to.

I’d only known Bell for a few months, most of which we’d spent fucking. And it’d been two weeks since I vowed that he was mine and I was his. Two weeks since I’d told him that even though I belonged to him, I wasn’t ready to tell anyone, but I’d try to get there.

So yeah. I should have been panicking.

But I wasn’t.

Bell’s expression shifted from panic to confusion before his gaze flicked away. He reached for his water glass like it might cool the heat rising in his face, but before he could take a sip, the familiartrillof the ringer he’d assigned to his agent sounded from his pocket.

He fumbled his phone free and glanced down at the screen.

“I have to take this,” he said quickly, already pushing back his chair, the legs scraping loudly over the flagstones.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Marjorie, either. Just muttered a soft, “Excuse me,” his voice strained as he fought with the sliding door handle, his sure, deft hands suddenly clumsy.

I watched him retreat into the house, shoulders hunched slightly forward as he retreated farther into the house.

Marjorie tilted her head, tracking his movement. The silence between us hummed with unspoken words, neither of us rushing to fill it.

I toyed with my fork, pushing a roasted potato across my plate.

“So,” she said finally, turning to me, her expression unreadable. “How long have you been in love with your handsome young roommate?”

I dropped my head forward and let it hang there. My hands flexed against the tabletop, as if grounding myself to something tangible might keep me from floating out of my own skin.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry, and reached for my water glass before changing my mind and letting my hand fall back down.

I drew in a slow, deep breath—felt it settle in my lungs—and then lifted my head.

There was a weird sort of weightlessness in my chest. Not the panicked kind I usually felt anytime someone got too close to the truth, but something softer. Quieter. Like the part of me that had been holding it all in had finally run out of excuses.

My eyes met Marjorie’s—steady, knowing, and impossibly kind.

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