Melting ice

Thin walls

*Rasmus*

Connor arrives with takeout, a bag of ice from the rink, and the kind of concern he tries to disguise as annoyance.

"You look terrible," he says from the porch.

"You come all this way to insult an injured man?"

"I came because Caleb said you were getting difficult."

Caleb, leaning against the kitchen counter with Butterscotch curled over one boot, lifts his beer in greeting. "I said he was Swedish. Different diagnosis."

Connor brings the food inside. Ava is at the table with her laptop open, reading an email from Detective Morales with the same rigid focus she gives an MRI.

She has been like that all afternoon. Too quiet. She takes calls on the porch, comes back inside, and organizes something. Her phone. Her notes. The folder with the messages.

Anything except herself.

"Hey, Doc," Connor says.

Ava looks up and gives him a small smile. "Connor."

"You eating?"

"She had half a granola bar," Caleb says.

Her eyes narrow. "I did not appoint you nutritional surveillance."

"No, but somebody has to."

Connor puts a container in front of her. "Chicken and rice. You have to eat enough to keep terrorizing us at practice."

"I can terrorize you on an empty stomach."

"That's the spirit."

She takes the container, and Connor drops into the chair beside her. He speaks low enough that Caleb and I pretend not to hear.

"The guys asked about you. Nobody wants details. We just wanted you to know we're around."

Ava's fingers tighten around the plastic fork. "Thank you."

"You say the word, and I'll have someone walk you in and out of the arena. No questions."

Her gaze flicks toward me, then away. "I don't want the whole team changing their routine because of me… or risk getting hurt."

Connor shrugs. "They change their routines every time Brady gets bored. We'll survive…. And hey we are big boys, you know… and used to fighting."

That gets a laugh out of her, brief but real. I watch her head tip back, watch the tension leave her mouth for one second.

Connor sees it too. His expression softens.

Jealousy is an ugly feeling. I know this. Connor is my captain. He is trying to help. He is also sitting close enough that Ava's knee nearly touches his, making her laugh when I have spent all day wondering whether she has eaten, slept, or looked at another message alone.

I hate that I am jealous of kindness.

Ava stands, gathering the empty containers. "Rasmus needs his medication in twenty minutes."

Connor looks at me. "You need a nurse or a babysitter?"

"Apparently both."

"She means patient compliance," Caleb says.

Ava's eyes flash. "I mean he has a spinal injury and poor judgment."

Connor grins. "You two are settling in, then."

The room goes strangely still.

Ava turns toward the sink. "He is my patient."

The words are ordinary. Correct. They still land under my ribs.

Connor does not seem to notice. "Right. Well, don't let him sneak back into the rink. He texted me a video of our power play and wrote, 'I could fix this.'"

"I could," I say.

"You cannot even put your own socks on."

"I can put them on."

"Yesterday you asked Butterscotch to bring you one."

The dog lifts his head at his name, pleased with himself.

Caleb laughs. Ava presses her lips together, trying not to smile.

Connor leaves after dinner, promising to send updates from practice. Ava walks him to the door, checks the lock after he goes, then checks it again.

I wait until she turns back.

"You should sleep tonight," I say.

Her shoulders rise. "I plan to."

"You say that like a threat."

"I say it like a person with work tomorrow."

I sigh, "You have not worked since I got home or rested properly."

"I have been coordinating your care."

"That is not the same as resting."

Ava looks at me, tired enough that the guard slips from her face. "Neither is pretending your back is fine because Connor brought food."

My mouth opens. She is already moving toward the hall.

"Take the medication," she says. "Then bed."

I do as she says.

Later, I lie awake in the room Ginnie has made comfortable with pale blue sheets and a lamp shaped like a seashell. The house is quiet except for the air conditioner clicking on and the waves beyond the open window.

My back throbs in slow, punishing pulses.

I reach for my phone and open the voice message I recorded for my parents three nights ago.

‘Hej mamma. Hej pappa. I'm good. Really. It hurts, but it is getting better. I have people here, so you do not have to worry. Ava is taking care of me, and she is…’

My own voice trails off.

I have listened to that unfinished sentence too many times.

A floorboard creaks in the hall. I stop the recording, but Ava's voice reaches me through the thin wall anyway.

"Rasmus?"

I sit up too fast and regret it immediately. "Come in."

She appears in the doorway wearing soft gray pajama pants and one of those oversized Pelicans shirts that makes my mind briefly useless. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She holds a glass of water and my heating pad.

"You're awake," she says.

"So are you."

"I heard your phone."

I take the glass from her carefully. "Sorry."

She crosses the room and plugs in the heating pad, her movements practiced. When she bends to place it beside me, the scent of her shampoo reaches me, clean and warm, with a hint of coconut. I grip the edge of the mattress.

"Ava."

She looks up.

I have a hundred things I could say. That I saw her hands shake after the detective called. That I would sit on this porch all night if it made her feel safer. That I hate hearing her tell everyone she is fine when she is clearly frightened.

That she is not only my doctor.

Her eyes hold mine, cautious and soft.

Then she notices the phone in my hand. The paused recording. My name beside a Swedish flag emoji my mother sends every morning.

"Was that your family?" she asks.

The moment closes without noise.

"Yes," I say. "I was going to send them a message."

"You should."

"I will."

Ava adjusts the heating pad over my back with careful hands. Her knuckles brush my side through my shirt. Every part of me goes still.

"You can't keep trying to carry this alone," she says quietly.

I almost laugh, because she has no idea how much she is talking about herself.

"Okay," I tell her.

She studies me as if she does not believe me. Then she pulls the blanket higher over my shoulder.

At the doorway, she pauses.

"My phone is on," she says. "If your pain gets worse, call me."

"I will."

After she leaves, I listen to the recording once more.

‘Ava is taking care of me, and she is…’

My phone lights up with a notification from the exterior camera.

Motion detected: rear access path.

I open the clip.

A figure stands beyond the dune fence, mostly hidden by darkness. For two seconds, a hand reaches through the slats and pins a white envelope to the wood.

Then the figure disappears.