Melting ice

Routines

*Ava*

The towels are already clean.

I know this because I washed them before dawn, then folded each one into exact thirds on the kitchen table while the coffee brewed and the sun came up pale over the water.

There are six beach towels in Ginnie's linen cabinet. Three blue, two striped, one white with a faded Pelicans logo near the hem. I fold the white one last, pressing my palm over the stiff cotton until it lies flat.

Behind me, the refrigerator opens.

"You are doing laundry at six in the morning," Rasmus says.

"I am folding laundry."

"Ah. Very different emergency."

I turn. He stands in the kitchen doorway in gray sweats and a black Pelicans shirt, one hand braced on the frame. His hair is damp and curling at his forehead. He must have showered. The thought arrives too quickly, followed by a sharper one about his lower back and whether he bent wrong getting dressed.

His posture is careful. Better than yesterday, but careful.

"You should not be standing like that," I say.

He looks at the doorway, then at me. "Like what?"

"Twisted through one hip."

"I am standing in a doorway."

I almost roll my eyes, "You are compensating."

"I am very talented."

"Sit down."

His mouth curves. "Good morning to you too, Doctor."

But he takes the chair at the kitchen island. He does it slowly, as though he expects the movement to hurt and intends to win anyway. A muscle tightens along his jaw when he lowers himself.

Pain scale, I think automatically. Mobility. Sleep. Medication compliance.

Then I see the bowl of oats he has set beside the stove, already measured. Two mugs wait near the kettle. One is blue and chipped at the handle, the one I have used it every day since moving in. Mine.

I look at it too long.

"You made breakfast," I say.

"I made oats. Breakfast is a generous word."

I give him a small smile, "You put cinnamon in mine."

"You put cinnamon in yours yesterday."

"That does not mean you had to remember it."

He is quiet for a second. His blue eyes settle on my face with that direct, unfair attention he gives me when I have said something that sounds more important than I intended.

"It is not difficult to remember things about you," he says.

The kettle clicks off.

I turn toward it before my expression can become usable evidence. "You need your anti-inflammatory with food."

"Very romantic."

"You should be grateful I did not bring the pill organizer."

"I am grateful. I am just frightened."

Butterscotch trots in from the hall, nails ticking over the floorboards. He circles my ankles once, then puts both front paws on Rasmus's thigh. Rasmus scratches behind his ears with his good hand.

"Traitor," I tell the dog.

Butterscotch yawns, like saying that being lend out for protection is tiredsome.

Rasmus glances toward the counter, where my phone sits facedown beside the evidence pouch. "Did Morales call?"

"At five forty-two."

"And?"

I spoon oats into two bowls. The motion is steady because I make it steady. "The vehicle registration from the apartment garage is connected to a name we already have. Ethan Vale."

Rasmus's hand stops on Butterscotch's neck.

The room changes in small ways. The waves are still breaking beyond the screened porch. The refrigerator hums. A gull makes a terrible sound outside. But Rasmus is no longer teasing.

"The man from the messages."

"Yes."

"What happens now?"

"Morales wants to establish whether he is still monitoring my movements. She thinks he will contact me again if I reopen one channel."

Rasmus says nothing.

I set his bowl in front of him. He does not reach for it.

"You would message him?" he asks.

"I would send a monitored response from the number he has used before. The detective will handle the technical side. I will not be alone. We will have officers nearby."

"No."

The word is low. Immediate.

I look at him.

His face has gone still, which is worse than anger. Rasmus smiles when he is worried. He jokes when he is angry. This is neither.

"You cannot say no," I tell him.

"I know." His fingers curl against the counter. "I am saying I do not like it."

"Neither do I."

"Then why?"

"Because we have a suspect, a vehicle, messages, camera footage, and a pattern. We need him to do something current. Something that shows intent."

His eyes move to the evidence pouch. "He already did enough."

"I agree. The law may require more than my agreement."

That lands hard. I can see him trying to swallow the answer he wants to give.

After a moment, he picks up his spoon. "What would you write?"

"I have not decided."

"You should not write anything that sounds like you want to see him."

"I know."

"I know you know." He looks down at his food. "Sorry."

The apology is so quiet I nearly miss it.

My chest tightens with a feeling I do not have a name for. Relief is too clean a word. Fear is too simple. There is something dangerous about being witnessed by someone who does not ask me to make it easier for him.

My phone vibrates against the counter.

Ginnie: ‘Morales is here in twenty. Please eat. That is a legal instruction.’

I show Rasmus the message.

He gives a faint smile. "Can she do that?"

"She has a law degree and alarming confidence."

"That is not the same thing."

"It has never stopped her."

He takes one bite of oatmeal. Then another. His shoulders ease by a fraction.

I take my own bowl to the porch. The morning has turned gold over the dunes. Across the narrow strip of sand, Caleb is dragging a hose around his yard in gym shorts and a faded tank top, tattoos dark along one arm. He raises a hand when he sees me.

I lift mine back.

The beach house is too close to everything now. Caleb's porch. Ginnie's camera system. Rasmus's bedroom wall. The locks I check twice before bed.

There are days when safety feels like a room people have built around me. Today it feels like standing inside that room with the door open.

Ginnie arrives with Detective Morales ten minutes later, both carrying coffee and the damp heat of Charleston morning with them. Ginnie wears a cream linen suit over sandals, her fountain pen tucked behind one ear. Morales is in plain clothes, hair pulled back, expression calm enough to make my pulse feel rude.

Butterscotch barrels toward them and is intercepted by Caleb from the porch.

"Your security detail has weak boundaries," Morales says.

"His clearance was granted by the homeowner," Ginnie replies. "Unfortunately, he is very persuasive."

Rasmus remains seated at the island. He has changed into a hoodie, and his crutches lean beside him. He looks like he belongs there. That is an unhelpful observation.

Morales opens a slim folder. "We can monitor the number. If he replies, we preserve everything. If he suggests a location, you do not go anywhere unless we approve it. Understood?"

"Understood."

Ginnie sets her coffee down and studies me. "You do not have to prove anything to anyone."

"I am aware."

"Ava."

I roll my thumb over the bare skin beside my ring finger. "I want this finished."

Morales nods once. "Then let us give him a chance to make a choice."

She slides my phone toward me.

The cursor blinks in the empty message field. My hands are cold despite the heat pressing through the screens.

I type: We need to talk. I am done hiding.

Rasmus makes a sound under his breath.

I look at him. He is watching the phone, not me.

"Too much?" I ask.

His gaze lifts. "It sounds like you."

"It is not an invitation."

"No." His voice roughens slightly. "It is not."

Morales reads it, then nods. "Send."

My finger hovers over the arrow. For one second, every instinct I have built my life around tells me to put the phone back in the pouch. Let the detective handle it. Let Ginnie make the call. Let someone else carry the risk.

Then I press send.

The message leaves with a soft blue flash.

No one speaks while we wait.

Rasmus reaches across the counter. He does not touch me. His hand stops beside mine, palm up on the wood, close enough that I can see the pale scar across one knuckle.

I could move away.

I do not.

The reply arrives less than a minute later.

My stomach drops before I read it.

I knew you would come around. Come to the rink after practice. Alone.