Snow? Never heard of it! - 4. Chapter 4: Domestic Violations

The washing machine announced the end of its cycle with a bright, optimistic chime that did not match Liam’s emotional state.

He stood in front of it with his arms crossed, head slightly tilted, as if the appliance might reconsider its choices if he stared at it long enough. Behind the glass door, a dense mass of black fabric clung together in damp solidarity. The clothes were clean in the technical sense—no visible stains, no lingering soap—but they were wet, which rendered them useless for the foreseeable future. And the foreseeable future, unfortunately, included tomorrow morning.

Rick leaned against the kitchen island, scrolling through something on his phone with the relaxed posture of a man who believed time would sort itself out. “You know,” he said without looking up, “they usually dry.”

Liam did not turn around. “That’s anecdotal evidence at best.”

“They have literally never failed to dry.”

“That just means we haven’t observed the failure yet.”

Rick glanced up, amused. “Are we still talking about laundry, or have we moved on to philosophy?”

Liam opened the washing machine door. Warm, humid air spilled out. He reached in and pulled out the first item: a black pullover. He held it up, inspected it critically, then set it aside and reached in again.

Another black pullover.

His jaw tightened.

A third black pullover emerged, heavier, clinging slightly to his fingers. He froze.

“No,” he said quietly.

Rick’s attention sharpened. “No what?”

Liam dug deeper, movements growing faster, more aggressive, as if the correct sweater might still be hiding at the bottom, waiting to be rescued. He pulled out another garment and held it up, eyes narrowing.

“This is the wrong black.”

Rick blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“This one is too faded. It looks tired. Like it’s already given up. It tells a story I don’t want to tell.”

Rick set his phone down. “How many blacks are there in your system?”

“Enough that this matters.”

Rick walked over and peered into the machine. “What exactly is happening right now?”

Liam turned to face him, eyes wide with something between panic and indignation. “All my proper pullovers were dirty.”

Rick frowned. “That’s why we did laundry.”

“Yes,” Liam snapped, “which means they are currently all wet, and therefore unavailable, and therefore a problem.”

“They’re just wet,” Rick said carefully.

“Wet is a transitional state,” Liam replied. “A dangerous one, and I really don’t have anything else to wear tomorrow.”

Rick folded his arms. “You said you didn’t care about the interview.”

“I don’t care emotionally,” Liam said. “I care logistically.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “You’re holding a sweater like it personally disappointed you.”

Liam dropped it back into the machine and ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the kitchen before turning back. “If I show up looking wrong, they’ll know.”

“They’ll know what?”

“That I don’t belong,” Liam said, immediately annoyed that the words had escaped him.

Rick’s expression softened just enough to be irritating. “They’re interviewing you, not your knitwear.”

“That’s what they claim,” Liam muttered.

Rick took a breath, then asked, “Why were the pullovers in the wardrobe if they were dirty?”

Liam hesitated. “They weren’t dirty then.”

Rick waited, patiently.

“They became dirty over time.”

Rick stared at him. “You should stop putting back your dirty clothes in your wardrobe.”

“Even if they are a little dirty?” Liam asked, tone professionally innocent.

Rick closed his eyes for a second, as if filing paperwork internally. “We washed everything yesterday, too.”

“I wore one,” Liam said defensively.

Rick opened his eyes. “To bed?”

“It was cold.”

Rick paused, visibly reconsidering several life choices. “You have shirts.”

“Not interview shirts.”

“You’re a researcher,” Rick said, “not a stage magician.”

Liam stared back at the washing machine, jaw set. “If the dryer fails me, this is on you.”

Rick smiled. “I’ll notify my insurance.”

Liam shoved an armful of black fabric into the dryer and slammed the door with unnecessary force. He jabbed at the touchscreen.

“Delicate cycle?” Rick asked.

“They’re sensitive,” Liam replied.

“So are you.”

The dryer began its low, steady hum. Liam stood there, listening, as if daring it to stop.

After a moment, he exhaled. “Fine. Let’s do something else.”

Rick checked the time. “Such as?”

“Prepare,” Liam said. “Organize. Eat.”

Rick nodded solemnly. “A classic response.”

They moved through the apartment with the awkward coordination of two people pretending this was intentional. Liam sorted books into precise stacks, muttering about deadlines that did not exist. Rick wiped down the counter that was already clean. The smart lights dimmed slightly as the afternoon darkened, responding to sensors rather than mood.

Liam checked the dryer again. Still damp.

“Of course,” he said. “Why would anything work.”

Rick leaned over his shoulder. “You could wear a jacket.”

“Indoors?"

“Layering is professional,” Rick said mildly.

Liam made a frustrated sound and turned away.

Rick went to their office to check some paperwork on the computer. He opened the browser and frowned.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you use the computer recently?”

Liam shrugged his shoulders, then realized Rick couldn't see him. “Maybe. Why?”

“There’s an account logged in I don’t recognize.”

Liam climbed the stairs too quickly. “Which account?”

Rick squinted at the screen. “Some email address. Definitely not mine.”

Liam stopped short, heat rushing to his face. “Oh. That one.”

Rick turned slowly. “That one?”

“It’s mine.”

Rick looked back at the screen, then at Liam. “Why do you have a secret identity?”

“It’s not secret. It’s… specialized.”

Rick clicked into the inbox.

“Rick, please,” Liam warned.

“I’m checking security.” Rick said matter of fact.

“You are not.” Liam took a step closer to look at the screen.

Rick scrolled. His expression changed—from concern, to curiosity, to a grin he did not bother to hide.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

Rick leaned back in the chair. “This explains a lot.”

“Please stop interpreting my life.”

Rick’s grin widened. “So this is what you were working on at the weekends.”

Liam dropped his hands. “Excuse me?”

Rick scrolled, eyes sparkling. “Interesting topics for boring emails. Repeated visits. Interesting time stamps. Very… consistent.”

“I was not—”

Rick raised a finger. “You did not work.”

“I worked adjacent to work.”

Rick stood, took a step closer, and leaned in. “You had a busy morning.”

Liam backed away. “I’m extremely sensitive right now.”

Rick followed. “Should I supervise you?”

“No.” Liam glared.

“We can install cameras in the bedroom.” Rick suggested playfully.

“Absolutely not.” Liam shook his head in disbelief.

Rick took another step. “You deserve punishment.”

Liam yelped and bolted. He sprinted out of the room, socks sliding dangerously on the floor, heart pounding with laughter and horror.

“Liam!” Rick called after him. “I can see your browser history!”

“You don’t know me!” Liam shouted, tearing down the stairs two at a time.

Rick followed, laughing openly now. “I know you!”

Liam reached the landing, skidded around the corner, and nearly collided with the banister.

“Come back here,” Rick said. “We need to talk about your productivity metrics.”

Liam disappeared around the corner, breathless and laughing.

Rick stopped at the bottom of the stairs, hands on the railing, grinning like a man who had just discovered an entertaining new hobby.

Somewhere in the apartment the dryer hummed steadily.

The pullovers were still wet.

But Rick had found a new case he intended to investigate thoroughly.