Page 26 of Cross Ice

“Evan—”

“Please.”

He hesitated, then pulled up his shirt. A massive bruise bloomed across his right side—dark purple and angry looking, spanning from his ribs to his hip.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed. My hand hovered over it, not quite touching. “Nico, that looks awful.”

“It looks worse than it is.” He pulled his shirt back down, that casual smile returning. “I saw a doctor. Just a bruise. I’ve had way worse.”

“How did it happen?”

“Got checked into the—” He stopped. “Got hit during an event. It’s part of the job.”

Vague again. The same careful category. I filed it with everything else and didn’t push—not yet, not about this. The bruise wasn’t a question I’d prepared for.

“Does it hurt?”

“Little bit.” He shifted me carefully to his other side. “But I’ve got you to distract me now.”

I settled against him. “Do you need ice? Ibuprofen?”

“Took something already. But ice would be good.”

I went to the kitchen and filled a bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and brought it back. We settled on the couch with the TV playing quietly, and I held the ice pack to his side while he talked about his week. After a few minutes, I felt him relax into it, the tension leaving his shoulders as the cold did its work.

“Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He was quiet for a moment, his hand covering mine where I held the ice pack. “I’m leaving Wednesday morning,” he said. “Work trip. We’ll be gone until next Wednesday.”

I went still. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. Multiple cities.” He paused. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

I looked at him. “Will you text me? While you’re gone?”

“Every chance I get. Might be late sometimes, but yeah, I’ll text.”

The Ryan comparison came automatically—the disappearing acts, the radio silence, the way I’d trained myself not to expect contact because expecting it hurt too much. I pushed it aside. Nico wasn’t Ryan. But I also wasn’t going to know what he was until I asked.

“Nico.” I kept my voice steady. “I know I’ve been letting things go. The vagueness about work, not knowing where you live, not really knowing what your life looks like. I’ve been letting it slide because things between us have been good, and I didn’t want to disrupt that.” I met his eyes. “But I need to know more than I know. Before you leave, and before this goes further.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he opened his mouth.

I watched something move across his face, not the careful composure he usually wore, but something underneath it. Raw and unsteady. He exhaled.

“My name is—” His jaw tightened.

I waited.

He looked down at his hands. A long moment passed. When he looked back up, something had shifted—not closed exactly, but steadied. Like he’d made a decision about a different decision.

“You’re right. And I’m going to tell you everything.” His voice was calm and certain in a way that didn’t feel like deflection—more like someone who had thought about this and decided. “There are things about my life that are complicated,” he said. “And what I need to tell you isn’t small. If I try to do it tonight, in the twenty minutes before I leave for a week, you’re going to have questions I can’t answer in person, in real time. You’ll be sitting with it alone while I’m in a different city.” He met my eyes steadily. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

It was a better reason than I’d expected. I turned it over, looking for the angle, the way I used to do with everything Ryan said. I didn’t find one. What I found was someone who had thought about how this would land for me, not just for himself.

That should have reassured me. Instead, it made my stomach tighten. Because if what he had to say was complicated enough to require careful timing—complicated enough that he was worried about leaving me alone with it—then whatever it was, it was significant. Not a minor omission. Something that would change the shape of what I thought I understood.