Page 21 of Cross Ice

He seemed to notice. He always noticed. “You like that.” Not a question, but an observation, warm with satisfaction. “Hearing how good you are.”

“Yes,” I admitted, and stopped being embarrassed about it almost immediately, because the sound he made in response, low and pleased, was worth any vulnerability.

He took me apart slowly and completely, and when I finally came with a shout, it was with my hand fisted in his hair, and I couldn’t have said whether I was pulling him closer or just holding on.

Afterward, he kissed his way back up my body, then shifted to straddle my hips. I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes—the lines of him in the low light, the unhurried confidence of his movements, the way he kept his gaze on my face even now. He stroked himself slowly at first, then faster, and when he came his whole body went taut, a broken sound catching in his throat, heat landing across my chest in pulses.

He stilled. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard, not speaking. Just foreheads touching, the space between us close and quiet.

After a moment, he reached for the tissue box on my nightstand, cleaned me up with careful hands, and dropped the tissues in the trash. Then he collapsed onto his side next to me and pulled me against his chest.

I laid my head on his shoulder and traced the lines of his tattoo.

“One life to live. One life to love,” I read out loud. “What made you get it?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I got it when I signed my first big contract… at work. It was a reminder that I’d worked my whole life for this, and I should make the most of it.”

“Are you?” I asked. “Making the most of it?”

He looked down at me, something soft in his expression. “I’m trying to. I’m getting better at it.”

I wanted to ask what he meant, but I could see he was done with it, so I let it go. Another deflection. I was getting good at cataloging them.

Before he could redirect, I asked, “What did you mean, your first big contract? What do you actually do?”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a flinch. More like a door being quietly closed. “It’s a team thing. Complicated to break down quickly.” He said it easily, like it was enough, like he expected me to accept it and move on.

I held his gaze for a moment. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t offer anything more either.

I knew that kind of silence. Ryan had used it differently—impatient, slightly contemptuous, like my questions were an inconvenience he hadn’t agreed to. Nico’s version was warmer, almost apologetic, but the effect was the same: the answer I’d asked for hadn’t arrived, and pushing further would make me the problem.

So I didn’t push. “A team thing,” I repeated.

“Yeah.” His expression relaxed.

There was a version of this where I pushed. Asked directly, wouldn’t let the subject change. I knew how to do that. I also knew where it led. With Ryan, answers had been the beginning of the end, with each one a new thing to weigh, to worry about, to watch for signs of. Knowing too much had never protected me. It had just given me more specific reasons to brace. So I let Nico redirect and told myself it wasn’t avoidance. It was patience. I didn’t entirely believe that, but I let it stand.

The silence sat between us for a moment, not uncomfortable but aware. Then Nico shifted, pulling me closer, and I felt him consciously change the register.

“Last night’s stir-fry was good,” he said. “Do you cook much, or was that a special occasion?”

“I cook most nights, actually. It’s easier than going out.”

He grinned. “Control freak.”

“Maybe.” I couldn’t help the smile twitching my lips. “You?”

“Takeout. Definitely.” He shifted to look at me. “I can make eggs and toast. That’s about where my skills end.”

“Your mom didn’t teach you?”

“Oh, she tried.” Nico laughed. “She has this rule—if you can’t feed yourself, you can’t take care of yourself. Taught Miguel and me the basics before we moved out.”

“And you forgot it all?”

“Pretty much immediately.” He didn’t look apologetic about it. “Miguel actually remembers, though. He cooks all the time. Makes these elaborate meals, tries new recipes. Sends me pictures and everything.”

“And you live on what? Protein shakes and takeout?”