Page 98 of Detectives in Love
“I’ll get some painkillers and put the kettle on,” I mutter, turning on my heel. “I’ll be right back.”
I head downstairs and into the kitchen, only realizing once I’m there that my hands are still trembling—from all the anxiety that’s been building up all day. But underneath it, there’s something else too: a wave of relief. Xavier’s home. That’s all that matters.
I move on autopilot. Kettle on. Mug out. I toss in some sugar and wait for the click before pouring boiling water over the tea bag. Xavier never takes sugar, but considering the state he’s in, I figure he needs it.
A few minutes later, I’m back upstairs—steaming mug in one hand, a glass of water and pills in the other. When I step into the bedroom, Xavier’s curled up on the bed again—still in his shirt, but now he’s stuffed my sweater under his head like a pillow instead of wearing it.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, setting everything down on the bedside table and flicking on the lamp.
“Mm.” He buries his face deeper into the sweater. His eyes stay shut.
“Take your shirt off and put the sweater on,” I say, but he just mumbles something I can’t catch. So I sit on the edge of the bed, pull back the comforter, and start unbuttoning his shirt myself.
His bloodshot eyes snap open, locking onto mine.
“What are you doing?” His voice is tense, caught off guard.
“Babysitting you, apparently,” I say, keeping my tone easy.
We stare at each other for a second before I finish unbuttoning his shirt and help him into the sweater. It barely fits, though it’s the biggest one I have. His skin is still cold—but I know how quickly that can flip into a fever.
I grab the pills and water from the nightstand and hold them out.
“Take these.”
Xavier squints at the capsules. “What are these for?”
“For the headache,” I say.
He frowns, eyeing the pills like they might bite. “They look like laxatives. What exactly are you treating me for?”
I nearly choke. “No, Xavier. One’s to protect your stomach from the painkiller. The other is the painkiller. For your headache. But if you get worse, I’m taking you to the ER.”
He mutters something under his breath but gives in, tossing the pills into his mouth and washing them down with water.
“Want some tea?” I ask.
“Not now.” He burrows under the comforter, one hand tucked beneath his head, the other pulling the covers up to his chin. “Just wanna sleep.”
I nod. “Get some rest.”
Xavier goes still for a beat. Then he says, “Stay. Please.”
There it is again.Stay. Please.I shove down the flutter it sends through my chest. I’m not going to overthink it. Not going to assign it more meaning than it has. I don’t have the bandwidth to break my heart anymore.
I lie down, and Xavier immediately pulls the comforter over me like a wing. I shift closer, wrapping my arms around his tense shoulders, drawing him in.
“You need to warm up,” I murmur, like I owe him an explanation.
He exhales, his body gradually relaxing against mine.
We lie there in silence, and I’m just starting to drift off when he mumbles, “How was the party?”
I blink back awake. “Awful. Don’t ask.”
“Okay,” he says—and I swear he sounds pleased.
That’s when I remember. “Why didn’t you answer my text? Or pick up when I called?”
