Page 101 of Detectives in Love

“Xavier.” I reach out, catch his elbow, and hold him there. “Wait. You’re burning up…we need to get you to a hospital.”

He shakes his head, eyes darting away. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, then he lets out a ragged breath. “So hot…” he croaks, tugging at the collar of his sweater. “Can’t…can’t breathe…”

The panic in his voice sends a wave of anxiety crashing through me. God, I’ve never seen him like this. I flick on the bedside lamp to get a better look—he’s flushed, not pale. Panic attack, then. Not the poisoning.

“Easy,” I murmur, cupping his cheek. “Slow breaths. Through your nose. That’s it… just breathe.”

Xavier stares at me, silent, bewildered, fear written all over his face.

I take his hand and squeeze it lightly. “Breathe. You’re okay.”

Another shaky inhale—still uneven, but steadier.

Xavier squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose as he exhales, trying to pull himself together. He stays like that for a moment, eyes closed.

I’m still holding his hand when he finally stirs, pushing himself off the bed.

“Where are you going?” I ask, standing with him as his fingers slip from mine.

“Bathroom,” he mutters. “I feel sick…”

He stumbles to the door, pulls it open, and disappears onto the stairs.

I hurry after him, but just as I reach the landing, a thud echoes below—followed by a crash and a sharp, “Fuck!”

“Xavier?” I call, hurrying down the steps, the pale morning light spilling in from the living room. “Are you okay?”

“Just…slipped…” His hoarse voice drifts up from the floor.

I grab his elbow and pull him to his feet, scanning him quickly.

“You didn’t break anything, did you?”

“No,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

I follow as he staggers from the living room to the kitchen and into the bathroom. He flicks on the light, drops to his knees by the toilet, and heaves, retching hard.

“Jesus,” I mutter, wetting a washcloth. I kneel beside him, watching as he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut, knuckles white against the toilet bowl. This is worse than I thought.

When the nausea finally eases, he slumps back against the wall. I hand him the washcloth, and he takes it with a shaky breath, cleaning his face before letting out a long exhale.

“How long were you in that underground lab?” I ask, brushing a sticky strand of hair off his forehead.

Xavier shakes his head weakly. “I don’t know…a couple of minutes, maybe.”

“We need to cool you down, get you into fresh clothes,” I say, crouching in front of him. “You’re drenched. Then I’m either getting you to a hospital or calling a doctor.”

Xavier drops the cloth to the floor, eyes shut, pressing his fingers into his temples as he shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I’ll go to the hospital. Just not today. Please.”

I sigh. God, he uses that word like a spell—and the worst part is, it works on me every damn time.

“We’ll see,” I mutter.