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I stare at him.

"Rémy." He turns the burner off under the rice. "It's three years. It's more than your contract. It sets you up for life. The clause—" He hesitates. "It doesn't really change anything. We're not—we can't do anything in public anyway. Not right now. So it's not like you'd be giving anything up."

There's a sound in my ears, like the rink right before the horn.

"Say that again," I say.

"I just mean⁠—"

"Say it again. It doesn't really change anything."

He hears it. I watch him hear it. His face goes still.

"That's the problem, Owen," I say. My voice is shaking. "It doesn't change anything, because I'm already doing it. I'm already hiding. For you. I stopped doing the slide. I took out my laces. I lied to Sorel. I lied to my mother, twice. I just lied to my agent. I stood up in front of a hundred kids and told them don't hide, and then I went home and wrote nobody knows at the top of a list."

"Rémy—"

"Now a company wants to pay me millions of dollars to keep doing it. In writing. For three years. You think I should take it, because it's convenient. Because it fits."

"That's not what I⁠—"

"That's exactly what you said!"

I'm yelling. I've never yelled at him. He's standing there in his stupid apron with his hands at his sides, and I'm yelling at him across his kitchen island, and I can't stop.

"I came out at sixteen so I would never have to do this again. So I'd never be anybody's secret again. Now I'm yours, and I'm about to be Frostline's, and I'm so tired, Owen, I'm so tired of⁠—"

He comes around the island.

He doesn't say anything. He just comes around it, fast, and takes my face in both his hands and kisses me. Hard. Not gentle. Not slow. Like he's trying to shut me up, or like he's trying to tell me something he doesn't have words for.

I shove him. Not away. Back. Into the counter. I grab the front of the stupid apron in my fists, and I kiss him back just as hard, harder, and it's angry and it's desperate and my face is wet and I don't know if it's mine or his.

He doesn't fight me. He takes it—opens for me, lets me shove my tongue into his mouth, lets me bite his lower lip hard enough that he makes a sound. His hands come up and fist in my hair, not gentle, and he kisses me like he's starving for it, like the argument is still happening between our mouths.

I yank at the apron ties. The knot is stupid and tight and I can't get it, so I just pull the whole thing up and over his head. It catches on his ears for a second and then it's off, flying somewhere behind me. He's left in a gray t-shirt and jeans and he looks ridiculous without the apron, suddenly smaller, and a broken laugh escapes me even though I'm still furious.

"There," I say against his mouth. "Better. Fucking stupid apron."

He huffs something that might be a laugh too, but it turns into a groan when I shove my hand down the front of his jeans and find him already hard. I squeeze once, rough, and he jerks into my palm.

"Rémy—"

"Shut up." I kiss him again, teeth and tongue, while I work his belt open with my other hand. "You don't get to talk yet. You said the wrong thing. Again. So now you take what I give you."

The belt comes free. I shove his jeans and briefs down just far enough to free his cock. He's thick and hot in my hand. I stroke him hard, almost mean, and he makes a punched-out sound against my mouth. His hips roll forward, chasing the friction.

I spin him around so his chest hits the edge of the counter. He goes easily. I press up behind him, still fully clothed, and grind my hard cock against the cleft of his ass through my jeans. The denim is rough. He pushes back into it anyway.

"This is what you get," I tell him, voice low and shaking. "You tell me to take the money so I can stay your secret a little longer, and then you stand there in that apron like everything's fine. It's not fine."

I reach around and stroke him again, tight and fast. His hands brace on the counter. His head drops forward.

"I know," he says, rough. "I know it's not."

I shove my own jeans and underwear down just enough. Spit into my palm—messy, quick. It's been weeks since the lake, since that white bed and the snow, and even this angry I'm not stupid. I give him thirty rough seconds I don't want to give, not the slow patience of that night, until he's pushing back against my hand. Then I slick myself and press the head of my cock against him.

He tenses.