Ice Between Us

The Things We Burried

I stare at the photo until the edges blur.

Not because I can’t see it.

Because I can.

Too clearly.

Every detail presses into me like it’s trying to leave a mark. The coat hanging off my shoulder. The vacant look in my eyes. The unfamiliar building behind me. The man beside me, close enough to make it seem intentional.

Nothing about it looks accidental.

And that terrifies me.

“You’re shaking.”

Ethan’s voice cuts through the silence quietly.

I look down.

He’s right.

My fingers tremble around the phone hard enough that I almost drop it.

“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, like he knows exactly how false that sounds, before he gently takes the phone back.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says.

The words settle somewhere dangerous inside my chest.

Because once upon a time, he was the only person I never pretended around.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

I look away first.

“Don’t,” I murmur.

“Don’t what?”

“Act like things between us are suddenly okay.”

A shadow crosses his expression.

“I know they’re not.”

“Good.”

The word comes out sharper than intended, but I don’t take it back.

Because if I let myself soften right now, even a little, I’m afraid everything else will collapse with it.

The truth already feels unstable enough.

I step away from the table, needing space to breathe, to think. The bar suddenly feels warmer than before, the air too thick in my lungs.

“Why keep all this hidden for five years?” I ask finally. “Why not tell me immediately?”

Ethan leans against the edge of the table, his jaw tightening slightly.

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

The answer comes too quickly.

Too honestly.

And the worst part?

He’s probably right.

Five years ago, I was angry. Hurt. Certain.

I thought silence meant guilt.

I thought walking away meant betrayal.

I thought the article proved everything.

“I could’ve listened,” I say quietly.

“You didn’t even let me explain back then.”

The words land hard because they’re true.

I remember that night now in fragments. The argument. My anger. The way I refused to hear anything that sounded like an excuse.

I wanted truth.

But only the version I already believed.

A hollow feeling settles in my chest.

“I ruined everything,” I whisper.

Ethan’s eyes meet mine instantly.

“No.”

“Yes,” I insist, emotion rising in my throat. “That article destroyed your reputation. Your career almost ended because of me.”

“It wasn’t because of you.”

“It literally was.”

“It was because someone used you.”

The firmness in his voice catches me off guard.

Not defensive.

Protective.

And somehow that feels worse.

I laugh once under my breath, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re still trying to protect me.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face.

“Maybe I never stopped.”

The air between us changes instantly.

He feels it too.

I can tell by the way his shoulders tense slightly, like the words escaped before he could stop them.

My pulse stumbles painfully.

Five years disappear for one dangerous second.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

And suddenly I remember exactly why loving Ethan Volkov once felt inevitable.

The way he looked at me like I mattered.

The way he always stepped between me and anything that could hurt me.

The way he loved quietly, but completely.

I hate that I still remember.

I hate it even more that part of me still wants it.

A sharp ringtone slices through the moment.

Ethan pulls out his phone, expression darkening slightly when he checks the screen.

“What?” I ask.

He declines the call immediately.

“Nothing.”

“Ethan.”

His gaze lifts to mine again.

Then his phone buzzes a second time.

A message this time.

I watch the shift in his expression carefully.

Controlled.

Too controlled.

“What happened?” I ask slowly.

For a second, I think he won’t answer.

Then

“Someone broke into my apartment.”

The words hit like ice water.

“What?”

“They didn’t take anything,” he says. “At least not that I noticed yet.”

A chill runs down my spine.

“That’s not random.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “It’s not.”

Fear curls low in my stomach.

Because suddenly this doesn’t feel like old secrets anymore.

It feels current.

Active.

Like someone knows we’re digging.

And they don’t like it.

“You think it was Daniel?” I ask.

Ethan doesn’t answer immediately.

And honestly?

That’s answer enough.

“We need to go,” he says suddenly.

My brows pull together. “Go where?”

“Your apartment.”

Confusion flashes through me. “Why?”

“Because if someone’s searching for evidence,” he says carefully, “there’s a chance you’re next.”

The words send a cold wave through me.

“No,” I say instantly. “Daniel wouldn’t”

“You still saying that after everything tonight?”

I fall silent.

Because I don’t know anymore.

That’s the terrifying part.

I don’t know my own brother anymore.

And maybe I haven’t for a long time.

Ethan grabs his jacket from the chair. “Come on.”

There’s urgency in his tone now. Sharp and focused.

Real.

I follow him out of the bar without arguing.

The drive back feels different from before.

Tenser.

The city lights blur past outside the windows, but neither of us speaks much. The silence isn’t empty though. It’s crowded with unfinished thoughts and the growing realization that things are escalating faster than either of us expected.

I keep replaying everything in my head.

The article.

The video.

The photos.

Daniel.

Each memory feels cracked now, like stepping on glass and realizing too late it isn’t stable.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Ethan says suddenly.

I blink. “What?”

A faint trace of amusement touches his voice. “You get this look when you’re spiraling.”

The comment catches me off guard.

Because it’s familiar.

Intimate.

“You remember that?” I ask quietly.

“I remember everything about you.”

The answer comes so naturally it steals the air from my lungs.

He says it like it’s nothing.

Like he didn’t just reach into my chest and squeeze.

The car falls silent again.

But this silence feels different.

Softer.

More dangerous.

By the time we reach my apartment building, my heartbeat has become unbearably loud.

Maybe from fear.

Maybe not entirely.

We step out of the elevator together, and the second we reach my hallway, Ethan’s posture changes instantly.

Sharp.

Alert.

“What?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he walks toward my apartment door slowly.

Then stops.

My stomach drops.

The door is slightly open.

Just barely.

But enough.

“No,” I breathe.

I know I locked it before leaving.

I always lock it.

Ethan steps slightly in front of me automatically.

Instinctively.

Protectively.

“Stay behind me,” he says quietly.

Every nerve in my body tightens as he pushes the door open carefully.

The apartment is dark.

Silent.

Too silent.

My pulse pounds violently as we step inside.

Nothing looks obviously wrong at first glance.

The couch is untouched. The kitchen looks normal.

But then

“My laptop.”

The words leave me instantly.

The couch table where I left it is empty.

Cold dread floods my chest.

“No, no, no”

I rush forward, searching frantically.

Maybe I moved it.

Maybe

“It’s gone,” Ethan says quietly behind me.

Panic rises fast and sharp.

“They took it,” I whisper. “The article files… my research… everything was in there.”

Ethan’s jaw tightens.

“That means they know you’re looking.”

Fear twists painfully in my stomach.

“Daniel,” I say softly, horrified.

But something still feels wrong.

Off.

My gaze moves around the apartment again.

Then stops.

The bedroom door.

It’s open too.

Slowly, cautiously, I walk toward it.

“Alina,” Ethan warns.

But I’m already moving.

The room looks untouched at first.

Until I notice something lying on the bed.

An envelope.

White.

Plain.

My heartbeat thunders as I pick it up carefully.

There’s no name on it.

Just one sentence written across the front.

Stop digging.

Ice floods my veins.

Ethan steps closer beside me, his expression darkening the second he sees it.

Then I turn the envelope over.

And my blood runs cold.

Because taped to the back

Is an old photograph of me and Ethan.

Five years ago.

Smiling.

Happy.

Before everything broke apart.

And across the photo, written in black ink, are four words that make my entire body freeze.

Some things stay buried.