The Thin Ice

The bed was empty when Ava woke. The sheets beside her were cool, smooth, like Damon hadn’t even touched them after she’d fallen asleep.

Her chest pinched. He hadn’t stayed.

Dragging herself up, she slipped into a robe and padded downstairs. The house was still, too quiet. No clink of glass, no low rumble of his voice on a phone call. Just silence.

On the counter, the coffee pot sat clean. Not even a trace of grounds in the filter. Damon always made coffee, even if he never drank much. Always.

Her hand brushed the handle, hesitating.

Movement caught her eye—by the door. His jacket was gone from the hook. But his watch lay on the table, the one he never forgot.

She picked it up. Heavy. Cold. It still held the faint warmth of his wrist.

Footsteps came from the back hallway. Damon appeared, crisp in a suit, tie knotted tight. He froze a beat when he saw her holding the watch.

“Forgot something?” she asked, her voice softer than she meant.

His jaw ticked, unreadable. He walked over, pluck