Page 143 of Cross Ice

“I want to post something,” I said. “About the media attention. About respecting your privacy.”

Evan looked at me. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I want to. Not to fix it—I know I can’t fix it—but to make it clear that harassment isn’t okay.” I paused. “Is that… would that be okay with you?”

“What would you say?”

I showed him what I’d drafted that afternoon.

I appreciate all the support I’ve been given. I’m asking you to extend that support by respecting my boyfriend’s privacy. Thank you for understanding.

Evan read it twice. “You’d really post that?”

“If you’re okay with it. This is your choice. I’m not doing it to fix things. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing to do.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Post it.”

I posted it on Instagram and set my phone on the table.

“That was brave,” Evan said.

“It was just the truth.” I shrugged. “Turns out that’s easier than I thought it’d be.”

We spent the rest of the evening just being together. We made dinner and found something on his TV that we both pretended to watch.

I had my arm around him on the couch, and he was tucked against my side, his head on my shoulder, one hand resting on my chest. But it felt different tonight. Lighter. Like we’d finally stopped bracing for impact.

Evan turned his head to look up at me. “What are you thinking?”

“That I missed this. Just… being with you.”

He shifted, moving closer, his hand sliding up to my jaw. “I missed it too.”

I kissed him. Meant it to be brief, just a touch of lips, but he kissed me back and something shifted. His fingers scraped against the scruff on my jaw, and I felt him sink into it, into me, the way he hadn’t in weeks. Suddenly, the movie didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this.

I pulled him closer, and he came willingly, turning to straddle my lap. His weight settled over me, thighs bracketing my hips, and the kiss deepened—languid but thorough. His hands found my shoulders, mine settled on his hips. We took our time in a way we hadn’t in weeks. No urgency. No desperation. Just want.

“Nico,” he murmured against my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Bedroom?”

“Definitely.”

He slid off my lap, and I stood, and we crossed the room with our hands still on each other, neither of us willing to get too far. I yanked his shirt over his head, feeling the heat of his skin under my palms. He got mine off before we even made it through the doorway, his hands sliding over my chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle. My hands found his back, the curve of his spine, the lean strength of him.

We shed the rest of our clothes on our way to the bed—jeans kicked off, boxers abandoned—and fell onto it together in a tangle of limbs.

I took my time. Kissed his neck, felt his pulse jump under my lips. Kissed his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

Evan pulled me back up and kissed me hard. Not careful, not measured—the way he used to kiss me before everything went sideways. His hands were in my hair, on my shoulders, pulling me closer like he couldn’t get enough contact.

“I want you,” he said. No hesitation. No qualifying.

I made sure he was ready first—slick fingers, slow and patient, watching his face. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time. Not drifting, not going somewhere else in his head. Just here.

“Now,” he said. “Nico, now.”