Page 112 of Detectives in Love
And realize I’m alone. Xavier’s gone.
Panic sparks in my chest. I jolt upright, breath catching as everything rushes back in a hot, dizzying wave.
What does this mean? Was it a mistake? Is he already regretting it?
My thoughts tumble into a mess—and then somewhere in the middle of it all, I remember: Willand. The police station. Are we late? I have no idea how long I’ve been out.
And Xavier—where the hell is he?
Did he panic and leave? We didn’t have penetrative sex, technically, but jerking each other off isn’t exactly part of our usual routine. He could be freaking out.
My heart pounds harder. I barely glance at my rumpled clothes before shoving off the bed and heading straight for the door. As I cross the hall toward the kitchen, my mind spirals into worst-case scenarios—he’s gone again, decided it was a mistake, ran before I could say anything.
I might’ve fucked everything up.
I force the thoughts down, trying not to replay what happened in too much detail—because I already know what my body will do if I let it, and I can’t deal with that right now.
And then I see him.
Xavier’s at the kitchen table, one foot propped up on the chair, arms wrapped around his knee. His eyes are closed, like he’s dozed off sitting there.
“Xavier,” I say, my pulse kicking up again. “Are you okay?”
His eyes flutter open, blinking at me like he didn’t expect to see me standing there.
“Mhm.” His voice is hoarse. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
I frown, watching the flush creep up his face. I step closer, reach out, and press the back of my hand to his forehead.
He’s burning up again.
Shit.
“Xavier, I think this might be more serious than we thought,” I murmur, shifting my hand to his neck. His skin is hot under my fingers. Xavier leans into the touch, eyes closed, his body swaying slightly like he’s barely holding himself upright.
“Let me take you to a doctor,” I say, crouching in front of him. “Then we’ll come back home and you can rest.”
“Willand called again,” Xavier mutters without opening his eyes. “He’s waiting for us.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say firmly, but he shakes his head and looks at me.
“We should go to the police station first. Then the doctor.” The way he says it—flat, resigned—makes my stomach twist.
He looks completely wiped. I reach up, running my fingers through his hair—
And then pause. His hair is damp.
“Xavier, you shouldn’t have—” I stop myself, face heating as it clicks into place.
Right. He washed it. Because of earlier. My cum in his hair.
I clear my throat and shift awkwardly. “Let me dry it before we go.”
He doesn’t answer, just sits there, flushed and still. So I head to the bathroom, grab the hair dryer, and come back.
He hasn’t moved. Still in the same spot at the table, arms curled around his knee like he’s holding himself together. I touch his elbow gently, coaxing him to stand. He lets me guide him without a word, and I lead him back to his room.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed. I plug in the hair dryer, switch it on, and start running my fingers through his curls as the warm air blows.
