Page 103 of Detectives in Love

I grab a towel from the hook, unfolding it as I wait for him to stand. He pushes himself up but immediately sways, knees giving out. I catch him under the arms before he can fall.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, wrapping the towel around him and steadying him as he steps onto the bath mat.

“Sorry. My body’s not…listening,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay. You need to sleep. And eat. Unless you’re aiming for a hospital stay,” I say, tightening the towel around him.

Xavier mutters something that barely sounds like words. I guide him to the bedroom and help him down onto the bed. Dropping the clean clothes in his lap, I step back.

“Can you get dressed?”

He doesn’t answer. His cheeks are flushed, lips dry and pale. I hesitate for a moment, then sigh and step in. I pull the towel away, trying not to notice the way his skin is still damp and overheated, then lift the T-shirt over his head, guiding his arms through as gently as I can. He sways, and I steady him, my hands firm on his sides. Then I help him into the pajama pants, my throat tightening at the sheer vulnerability of it—him letting me do this without protest, too weak to argue. Once he’s dressed, I lay him back against the pillows and pull the comforter over him.

“I’ll grab some meds,” I say, though he doesn’t respond, just lies there with his eyes shut.

When I return with the first aid kit and a glass of water, he hasn’t moved. I lean in, press my lips to his forehead, and feel the heat still clinging to his skin. “How’re you feeling?”

His eyes flutter open, barely focused. “The room’s spinning…”

“It’ll pass,” I murmur, sitting down beside him. “Just sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Xavier doesn’t reply, his eyes drifting shut. His breathing slows, evens out.

I yawn, watching his still silhouette in the dim light. He doesn’t move, and after a while, sleep tugs at me again—heavier this time. With a moment’s hesitation, I lie down beside him, on top of the comforter, and close my eyes.

***

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, a sharp knock jolts me upright. My sleep-muddled thoughts—Rishetor’s labs, gasoline, Xavier—scatter as the door creaks open.

Mrs. Waverly pokes her head in.

I squint at her through half-lidded eyes, still too heavy with sleep to react when she chirps, “Morning, Xavi—”

She cuts herself off.

Oh God.

Being friendly with your neighbors has its perks, but sometimes—even with someone as sweet as Mrs. Waverly—it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Like now.

The Waverlys drop by unannounced all the time. Usually it’s sweet. Occasionally, a little awkward. But this? This is a disaster.

Her gaze lands on me, half-buried under the covers beside Xavier.

“Oh,” she says, a little flustered. “Newt. You’re here too. Good morning!” A beat. “Boys, I didn’t mean to intrude…”

“Ugh.” A low groan rises from the comforter beside me. That’s when I realize the warm weight pressed against me is Xavier—his arm slung across my waist, his head tucked into the crook of my shoulder, most of his body draped over mine.

I rub my face, trying to shake off the sleep. “What time is it?”

“Eleven,” she says, still lingering in the doorway.

Eleven. I wince. I slept straight through my alarm. The curtains are still drawn, the room cloaked in grayish dimness, barely brighter than early morning.

“Chief Willand called,” Mrs. Waverly adds, her voice a little gentler now. “Said it was urgent. He couldn’t reach you.”

Xavier shifts but doesn’t lift his head. His voice is muffled, rough with sleep. “Tell him to leave us alone.”