Page 150 of Detectives in Love
I reach out and rub his back, trying to soothe him. Seeing Xavier like this—vulnerable, unguarded—knots something in my chest. He’s so close to breaking it hurts to even look at him.
“Xavier,” I say, taking his hand. “Come lie down with me.”
It’s almost too easy to touch him in the dark, my heart pounding at the contact.
He looks down at our hands, then back at me—his eyes searching, like he’s asking something without saying it.
I give his hand a gentle tug and lead him back to bed.
We slip under the covers. I wrap an arm around his shoulder; he slides one around my waist.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice low.
He shakes his head, then suddenly pushes up on one elbow and leans in, pausing just long enough for me to stop him if I want to. And then he kisses me. His lips are soft. Careful. The kiss lingers—unhurried, stripped of urgency. No tongue, no edge, nothing like before. It feels almost sad, like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into it. I can feel the weight of it, whatever he’s holding back, pressed between us.
I want to ask if it’s really him. If he’s okay, or if this is still the intoxication, the meds, the mess of yesterday. If he’s kissing me because he wants comfort—or because he wants me. Wants this.
I’m scared to find out. Scared that if I ask, the moment will fall apart. That I’ll realize he’s only doing this for me—because he knows how much I want him and doesn’t want to hurt me. Because he’s afraid of losing a friend.
But this version of Xavier feels real. Like someone no one else gets to see. No cold front, no distance. He doesn’t say much, but I still feel like I know him.
In the daylight, it’s easy to pretend. But in the dark, it’s impossible to keep up the act.
We stay like that for a long time, barely moving, just kissing and breathing while the rain lashes the windows.
There’s no space between the lightning and thunder now.
A flash—
Boom.
The storm is here.
Something wet brushes my cheeks.
It takes me a moment to realize they’re Xavier’s tears. He’s crying, but barely. No sound, no shift in his face. Just tear tracks catching the light. And still, he doesn’t stop kissing me.
I pull back just enough, my hand resting on his shoulder, trying to catch his eyes in the dim light.
“Xavier,” I murmur, breathless. “Talk to me. Please.”
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine, exhaling like he’s trying to get a grip. Like he knows he has to say something but doesn’t want to.
Then he pulls away and lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. I stay beside him, watching his profile in the dark, giving him space.
Just when I start to think he won’t say anything, he breaks the silence.
“He could’ve killed you,” he says, voice hollow.
My chest tightens.
God—is that what this was about? Not the case, not the break-in. Just the fear that I might’ve died?
“Hey.” I shift a little closer, my leg aching in protest. “It’s just a cut. I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. He turns and kisses my hair, and the tenderness of it knocks the breath out of me.
“I know you’re tough,” he says, with a quiet, bitter laugh. “But you matter too much to risk.”
