Melting ice

Kitchen territory

*Rasmus*

The beach house has one bathroom, two bedrooms, and a kitchen so bright it feels personally judgmental.

By the second morning, Ava has claimed half the refrigerator with meal-prep containers labeled in block letters. I have claimed one shelf with yogurt, rye bread, and three jars of Swedish mustard Ginnie found at an international market because she is terrifyingly efficient.

Ava stands at the stove in navy scrubs, stirring oatmeal with one hand while reading something on her phone with the other. Her hair is tied up in a satin scarf, gold hoops catching the early sun through the windows.

She looks tired.

I know this because I have become an expert in all the ways Ava Riley looks tired without letting anyone say so. The crease between her eyebrows. The careful way she locks the front door, then checks it again. The phone she keeps facedown beside her plate.

"Morning," I say.

She glances at me. "You were supposed to call me before getting out of bed."

"I was getting water."

"You were limping toward the kitchen."

"I was limping very carefully."

Her mouth tightens. "Pain level?"

"Four."

It has been seven since I woke up, hot and sharp through my lower back. I had sat on the edge of the bed until the room stopped tilting, folded my resistance bands into neat little squares, then decided I could make it to the kitchen without bothering her.

Ava watches me for a long second.

"Seven," she says.

I lean against the counter. "What?"

"Your left pupil is a little wider. You're sweating. And you have the particular expression men get when they think gritting their teeth counts as a treatment plan."

I give her my best smile. "You notice everything about me."

"I notice injuries."

"That is still something."

The heat that climbs her face is quick, but I see it. Ava reaches past me for the medication bottle, and the soft brush of her arm against my ribs makes my body go strangely alert.

"Take this," she says.

"Bossy."

"Yes."

I swallow the pill, because I am injured and because she is right, which are both unpleasant truths.

A knock comes at the front door. Before Ava can move, I catch the small flinch in her shoulders.

"Stay," she says.

"I am sitting."

"You are standing badly."

Winter Hayes breezes in without waiting for an invitation, bringing warm air, a pink baseball cap, and a cardboard tray of coffees. Charleston's head cheerleader looks as though she has never had a bad morning in her life, which cannot possibly be true, but I choose to believe it anyway.

"Good news," she says. "I brought caffeine. Bad news, Caleb told me I have to stop calling you Captain Crutches."

"That is very sad for me," I tell her.

Winter sets a coffee in front of Ava. "I also brought the detective screenshots from the arena camera system. Ginnie said you wanted everything copied."

Ava's hand stills around her spoon.

"Thank you," she says. Too formal.

Winter's smile softens. "Of course."

She does not ask for details. She moves around the kitchen instead, talking about the Pelicans' practice, about Connor nearly throwing a stick because Leon beat him at some shooting drill, about how Caleb is pretending his bruised knuckles came from ‘a door.’

"A door with a face?" I ask.

"Exactly what I said."

Ava almost smiles. Almost.

Winter leaves ten minutes later, promising to bring dinner after rehearsal. Ava locks the door behind her, then checks the windows. I watch her pull the curtain at the front just enough to look toward the street.

"There is a dark sedan across from the house," I say.

She turns sharply. "Where?"

"Near the public access path. It has been there since before Winter came."

Ava comes to the window, keeping herself behind the curtain. I hate the way her face drains when she sees it.

"It could be anybody," she says.

"It could."

"People park there for the beach."

"It is nine in the morning. There is no one inside, and the driver's side mirror is turned toward our porch."

She looks at me then, irritated fear flashing across her face. "Rasmus, please don't start making every car into an emergency."

The words hit harder than they should. I have spent my career making bad things lighter before they can settle on anybody else. I know how to smile through a bruise, how to say I am fine until everyone believes me.

But I know what it looked like when she flinched.

"I am not making it an emergency," I say quietly. "I am saying I saw it."

Her eyes drop.

I take my phone from the counter and photograph the sedan through the narrow gap in the curtain. The plate is not clear, but the make and color are. Then I send it to Ginnie and Caleb.

Ava exhales through her nose. "You should have asked."

"You are right." I lower my phone. "I should have asked. But I did not want it gone before anyone saw it."

For a second, neither of us speaks. The ocean shifts behind the house, waves breaking somewhere beyond the dunes.

Then Ava takes out her own phone.

Her fingers tremble once before she steadies them.

"Send me the picture," she says. "And forward it to Detective Morales. I want the time noted."

Relief loosens something in my chest, though I am careful not to show it.

"Okay."

She watches the sedan until it pulls away ten minutes later. No dramatic rush. No person stepping out. Just a slow turn toward the road and a disappearing set of taillights.

Ava photographs that too.

When she finally faces me, her expression has returned to doctor mode, calm and exacting. It does not quite cover the fear underneath.

"Back to bed," she says.

"Yes, Doctor Riley."

Her gaze catches on mine. Something unguarded passes over her face, then vanishes.

"You don't get points for being helpful if you hurt yourself walking there," she says.

I reach for my crutch.

Outside, the street is empty again.

Inside, Ava sends the photographs to the police, and I fold my rehab bands into perfect squares while she pretends not to watch me.