Page 85 of Detectives in Love
I nod again, blinking back the sting in my eyes, trying not to fall apart right there in the hallway. I thank her quietly and head back to my apartment, more grateful for the conversation than I know how to show.
By midnight, after a long shower, I drag myself to bed. I turn off the light and climb under the covers. My mindfeels empty, but somehow my thoughts keep drifting anyway—floating in and out, refusing to settle.
I close my eyes and will myself to sleep. It doesn’t help.
I drift off eventually, but it’s the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest—light, broken. Every time I surface, Xavier is the only thing on my mind.
A couple of hours pass in that hazy, half-asleep state before I wake again. The room feels too hot. I kick one leg out from under the comforter and stare at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. Then I roll onto my side, tracing shapes in the dark.
Another hour slips by, and I still can’t stop thinking about him.
Is he asleep? Awake? Working?
I glance out the window. The sky is dark, the moon a milky white blur veiled in gray haze, half-lost behind fast-moving clouds. When I look away and back again, the clouds have thickened, swallowing the moon entirely and turning the sky a flat, endless gray. Only the faintest streaks of blue along the horizon hint at how fast the fog is rolling in, blanketing the city. Every so often, the mist shifts, letting the moon shine through for a second before covering it again.
I lie there until four, listening to the slow, miserable ticking of the clock and the occasional hum of cars outside. When I finally drift off, my dreams are a mess—murderous journalists sneaking through Rishetor’s Laboratory, Fred Collins in a clown costume muttering something about the Kansas City Shuffle…
And, of course, Xavier.
I chuckle softly, watching the crease in Xavier’s brow, and lean in again.
This time, his cool hand catches me, pressing against my chest—holding me back before I can kiss him.
“Enough.”
There’s indignation in his eyes. Confusion too—and something else.
My fingers find the belt of his robe. I tug it loose, let it drop to the floor.
“Oh God,” Xavier says hoarsely. “You’re so drunk.”
He keeps holding me back—not forcefully, but steady.
I laugh again, cupping his face, letting my hands wander down over his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone…
“Newt…”
I jolt awake, heart pounding. The clock on the wall reads a quarter to seven.
I feel drained, like I didn’t sleep at all. I drag myself out of bed and head for the shower. Xavier’s door is still closed.
Afterward, I make coffee and sit at the kitchen table. I’m not hungry. My stomach’s in knots, and there’s a lump in my throat. How does Xavier always manage to make me feel guilty—even when I haven’t really done anything?
I wait for him to wake up, running through what I’ll say.
Yesterday, I was convinced I should do nothing. Just wait for him to cool off. Give him space. But today, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to lose him. Whatever that wasbetween us—sleeping together, him asking me to stay—I know that if I wait, it’ll disappear. Whatever it meant. Whatever it could mean.
So today, I’m sure. I have to take the risk. I have to tell the truth. Because if I don’t, I’ll be stuck in this limbo forever. And whatever happens next—I need to just get it over with. But do I actually have the courage?
God, I hate knowing exactly how much I’m afraid to lose him. Maybe if I tell him I love him—not that I’minlove with him—it’ll be vague enough to keep the friendship intact. Still honest, but easy to misread if he wants to. He could brush it off, assume I meant something else.
7:30.
7:50.
8:00.
8:20.
