Page 124 of Detectives in Love

I say it like I mean it—because I do. I have to. I can’t let the panic win, not when he’s already this worn down.

He nods. But then his eyes well up. He tries to blink it back, but the tears fall anyway.

“Hey,” I murmur, brushing them away with my hand. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright.”

I lean in to kiss the top of his head, but he catches my chin mid-way, holding my gaze. Then he closes his eyes and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine.

My chest tightens, heartbeat thudding loud in my ears.

The kiss isn’t anything like the ones we shared this morning—it’s desperate, clinging, the kind that tastes like goodbye.

And when I open my eyes, I know that’s exactly what it is. He thinks he’s saying goodbye.

I pull back, frowning at him. “You’re not going to die, you idiot.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his hand on my face, thumb tracing along my jaw, eyes locked on my mouth like nothing else exists. They’re glassy, wet. My chest twists at the sight.

“Come here,” I say, straightening my legs to make space. “Just lie down for a bit.”

He does. A moment later, he’s curled against me, resting his head in my lap, my fingers sliding through his hair, the other hand rubbing his shoulder.

“They’ll probably take you to the hospital, run a few quick tests,” I murmur. “But don’t worry—I’ll be with you the whole time. Then we’ll go home.”

Xavier just nods, eyes closed. So we sit like that, waiting. And the whole time, I’m hoping Rishetor doesn’t walk in and see us like this—not because I care what he thinks of me, but because I don’t want him seeing Xavier like this. Weak. Even if it’s just the poisoning.

When the bathroom door finally opens and two paramedics step in—a man and a woman—I feel a rush of relief, laced with fresh anxiety.

“The paramedics are here,” I say, tapping Xavier’s shoulder.

He opens his eyes and slowly sits up, but I can see the tension in his body. He really does hate doctors—that much is obvious.

I give them the short version—gasoline vapors, the cold lab, everything. They exchange a quick, surprised look but don’t comment, just nod as they listen.

Then they ask for Xavier’s full name, and the male paramedic jots it down in a notepad along with our home address.

“How are you feeling, sir?” the female paramedic asks, crouching beside him.

“I’m still alive, I think,” he says weakly. And judging by the stoic set of his face, I realize just how scared he actually is. He doesn’t show it, not really—but I’ve never seen him this rattled. Not even at gunpoint.

The paramedic lets out a soft snort.

“Let me check your blood pressure, sir,” she says, pulling a monitor from her bag. “Can you roll up your sleeve, please?”

Xavier nods and, with some effort, unbuttons his cuff and pushes the sleeve up.

She straps the cuff around his arm and presses the button. The machine beeps and starts to inflate, tightening around his bicep. Xavier blinks, his face tensing even more.

I keep my hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He draws in a shaky breath and looks up at me—like he’s half expecting the monitor to confirm he’s already dead.

Half a minute later, the machine beeps again.

“Pressure’s low,” the paramedic says. “When was the last time you ate, sir?”

“I don’t know,” Xavier says with a shrug, a flicker of relief in his voice. I feel it too—if she’s asking about food, it probably means it’s not that bad. Right?

The male paramedic hands Xavier his pad and a pen. “Sign at the bottom to confirm you consent to the exam.”

I half expect Xavier to put up a fight, but he just signs and hands it back without a word.