Page 142 of Detectives in Love
He watches me for a second, like he’s not sure he believes it. I reach up and press a kiss to the crown of his dark curls. I feel him freeze under my touch—and when I pull back, he’s staring at me, brow furrowed, his eyes searching mine.
“Sorry,” I mumble, remembering he asked me not to touch him today.
Xavier doesn’t answer, just gives me a look I can’t read and turns back to the window.
We ride in silence after that, the cab rattling softly around us.
Traffic thickens on Somersby Road, and we end up stuck for nearly forty minutes just a few blocks from Hickory. At some point, Xavier drifts off, his head resting lightly against the window. I watch him for a moment, then settle back. I could wake him, make us walk the rest of the way—but I don’t. I’d rather let him sleep.
When the cab finally stops in front of our building, thankfully, there’s no paparazzi in sight. I nudge Xavier awake, and soon we’re stepping over the threshold on the second floor, shutting the door behind us. Xavier drops the blanket right there and kicks off his shoes, heading straight for the bathroom without a word.
I collapse onto the couch in the living room and open a food delivery app, because I don’t have the brainpower to think about cooking or running to the store tonight. Honestly, I’m not even sure I can eat—but looking at Xavier’s condition, I know I have to make him eat, so delivery it is.
Lying there, scrolling through the menu, I settle on Armenian food. Xavier’s big on protein, and right now the only thing I can think of is ordering two kilos of khorovats with baked potatoes—and some zhingyalov hats on the side, mostly because I love them.
As I place the order, I listen to the faint sound of the shower running somewhere deep in the apartment, the white noise filling the silence. I don’t even notice when I doze off, and I’m not sure how much time passes before I wake to the sound of the door closing. I jolt upright, heart racing—some part of me convinced Xavier just left and I need to stop him—but when I situp, I see him standing in the doorway with the delivery bags and my phone in his hand.
“God, I fell asleep and didn’t even hear the phone,” I mumble, rubbing my face, feeling stupidly embarrassed. Well, not stupidly—there’s a reason. Xavier’s standing there in nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, and absolutely nothing else. His chiseled muscles are on full display, and it honestly pisses me off a little to think some random delivery guy just saw him like that.
Xavier gives me a faint smile and crosses the room, setting the food down on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside me. He smells like shampoo and clean skin, and I realize I should probably shower too—after passing out on the couch, I feel sticky and gross.
“Hi,” he says quietly, glancing over at me.
“Hi,” I mumble, suddenly feeling way too aware of how close we’re sitting.
I turn away, grab the remote, and flick the TV on, just for some background noise. I flip through a few channels—a gay scandal at the ministry, a weather report—then land on a Wuthering Heights adaptation. I leave it running and start unpacking the food, feeling Xavier’s gaze following my every move.
Once the smell of grilled meat fills the air, I get up and head to the kitchen for plates and forks—half because we need them, half because I need a second to breathe. When I come back, Xavier’s eyes are on the screen, though his face is unreadable. On TV, Heathcliff watches Catherine and Edgar through a rain-streaked window, but I’m not sure Xavier’s really following the scene—he looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.
“Here you go,” I say, dropping down beside him and handing him a plate and a fork. He takes them without a word, and we start filling our plates.
We eat in silence for a while, but it’s not uncomfortable. We’re just too exhausted to talk, even though I know sooner or later we’ll have to.
When we finish eating, we just sit there, and I’m keenly aware of the space between us. On the screen, Catherine kisses Heathcliff’s back, licking the blood from his unhealed wounds. And somehow, sitting there with Xavier, watching her as the room darkens around us, it feels almost too intimate.
When the movie ends, I switch off the TV and push to my feet.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” I say. Xavier doesn’t answer—just watches me leave.
The hot water feels incredible against my skin, and I lose track of time, just standing there, letting it wash over me. My mind circles everything that happened today, over and over, until I’m not even sure it was real.
When I finally step onto the bathroom mat and towel off, the only thing I feel is bone-deep exhaustion—like it’s sunk into me, body and mind.
When I leave the bathroom, I hover in the hallway for a moment, looking toward Xavier’s door, debating whether to sleep in his room tonight. After everything, I can’t imagine going to bed alone. But in the end, I turn the other way—because he’s even more drained than I am, and he needs real rest. He needs to be fully himself again before I can trust that he actually wants me there, even if it’s just to fall asleep side by side.
I head through the kitchen and back into the darkened living room—but as I round the corner, I walk straight into Xavier’s chest.
“Jesus,” I exhale, trying to steady myself. “You scared me, Xavier.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, chuckling. Then, suddenly, his hand finds mine, fingers skimming lightly over my knuckles as we stand there in the quiet.
I look up at him with a small smile. If this is still the meds talking, I’m not about to waste it. He gives me one of his faintest smiles in return, still holding my hand, watching me like he’s waiting for something.
“What?” I whisper, the smile lingering—because yeah, I’m the one hopelessly gone for him, and the warmth buzzing under my skin won’t let me pretend otherwise.
“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough. “Please.”
I know he means with him. Tonight. Heat twists low in my stomach, my chest pulling tight. When he talks like that, his voice does something to me—melts my brain into jelly.
