Page 63 of Detectives in Love
But when I come downstairs and see Xavier in the living room—shrugging on a black jacket over a pitch-black shirt so tight it looks like the buttons might give—I feel it again. That flip in my stomach.
The place is still a mess from last night. Plates, glasses, and bottles everywhere. The memories hit me like a punch. I swallow hard.
“Let’s go,” Xavier says, catching my eye.
I glance around. “We’re just leaving the living room like this?”
“Like what?” He frowns.
I nod toward the mess.
“We’ll clean later,” he says, grabbing Bridge’s file from the table on his way to the door. “Come on.”
***
For the first five minutes of our ride to Fulton, neither of us speaks—Xavier flips through Bridge’s case file, and I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, my thoughts looping back to last night again.
Eventually, the silence starts to grate. I glance at him.
“Ernest must be really worried about you,” I say, clearing my throat. “Showing up first thing in the morning? That’s…not really his style.”
“It’s about the cameras,” Xavier mutters, flipping a page. “Sauron has gone blind.” He smirks, dark.
I let out a quiet laugh. “Sauron? Didn’t have you pegged as a Lord of the Rings guy.”
“Why?” He arches a brow. “What do you think I read?”
I grin. “I don’t know. Manuals. Psychology textbooks. Crime reports?”
He shoots me a look—equal parts skeptical and amused. “You seriously never noticed the portrait in my bedroom?”
At ‘my bedroom’, heat prickles up the back of my neck—no idea why.
“Right…yeah.” I’d completely forgotten about that. “Well, Maugham’s books are kind of intellectual—so that tracks.”
Xavier makes a face, like the word physically hurts. “Intellectual? Come on.”
“What?” I grumble. “They are. And kind of depressing.”
He smirks. “If you say so.”
“So what’s your favorite?” I ask, watching him. “Wait—don’t tell me.The Moon and Sixpence.”
“No! Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.The Painted Veil, then?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Of Human Bondage.”
“Of course,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You really do love a tortured soul.”
Xavier frowns like I’ve missed the point entirely. “It’s not about the suffering.”
“Sure. You just like tragic stories. The pain, the angst, the slow descent into existential despair—very on brand.”
“Tragic stories?” He shoots me a look, almost offended. “That’s a bit reductive.”
I smirk. “Alright, then enlighten me. Why do you like it?”
