Page 128 of Detectives in Love

My stomach sinks.

I turn my head, slow as a rusted hinge, and there it is: the fat black lens of a video camera, red light blinking like a smug little heartbeat.

Oh, perfect. Just perfect.

I grit my teeth, shove past the red-lipped journalist while she’s still frozen, and push through the door. I slam it behind me and lean against the wood for half a breath, my heart thudding like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. The phantom flash of that red light still burns in my vision.

But then I remember Xavier and look up, blinking into the half-dark of the hallway. That’s when I see him—sitting on the bottom step, slumped against the railing, head tilted to the side, eyes closed like he’s drifted off.

“Xavier,” I call, but he doesn’t answer.

I hurry over, trying not to panic. When I shake his shoulder, he lets out a soft, indecipherablehmm?, eyes still shut. The meds must’ve kicked in full force.

“Hey, let’s go upstairs,” I say, taking his elbow and trying to pull him up—but he doesn’t move.

I pause, staring at him, doing the math. He’s bigger than me, out cold on diazepam, and currently about as cooperative as a brick wall.

“Alright,” I sigh, looping an arm around his waist and hauling him up with everything I’ve got.

He rises—barely—but he’s on his feet. His eyes crack open, and he blinks at me like it takes effort just to process my face.

“Hi there,” I say, trying not to sound winded.

“Newt,” he murmurs, then trails off, staring at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I keep my voice steady, hoping it anchors him. “Let’s get upstairs.”

We start the climb—slow, clumsy, one step at a time. It takes a full minute to reach the top. When I open the apartment door, he’s still conscious, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing holding him up. Which, to be fair, I am—he’s leaning into me with all his weight.

I guide him through the living room and kitchen, down the dark hallway, straight into his bedroom. The room’s bathed in soft blue shadows. I ease him onto the edge of the bed and start working on his coat, but he’s not exactly helping—just sits there like a rag doll, watching me struggle to tug the sleeves off his arms.

Finally, I get it off, toss it aside—and then hear him murmur, “Newt.”

“Yeah?” I crouch down to take off his shoes, glancing up.

He smiles, just a little, voice thick and slurred. “Look. We’ve switched places.”

It takes a beat for me to register what he means—until he adds, “NowI’mdrunk, andyou’reputting me to bed.”

I snort at that, tugging off his shoes one at a time. But then, without warning, Xavier stands—wobbling a little—and starts unfastening his pants.

“What are you doing?” I ask, even though I can already guess. Stupid question, maybe, but given his state, I figure it’s worth confirming.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he mumbles, still wearing that dazed little smile, eyes on me as he drops his pants and steps out of them. Then his fingers move to his shirt buttons.

“Right,” I mutter, circling around him. I take a moment to smooth the twisted bedsheets, toss a pillow back into place,then pause to fold down the comforter. I do it slowly, partly to make space, partly because I’m delaying the inevitable moment of turning around again.

When I finally do, Xavier’s standing closer—shirt hanging open, still in his boxer briefs, thankfully. His eyes are half-lidded, a little unfocused, and even though he’s staring somewhere around my sternum, I can feel his attention locked on me. His expression is serious now, almost somber, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and I feel that same jolt of arousal I did in the car—just from how close he is.

It rattles me—not because I don’t want him—fuck, I really do—but because I know this isn’t really him. He’s not thinking straight, and I can’t let myself want something he didn’t fully mean to give. Not when he might regret it the second the drugs wear off.

“Alright, time to get some sleep,” I say, looking away.

He stands there a moment, then sighs quietly and climbs into bed. Relief washes over me—because honestly, I don’t have it in me to deal with anything more right now. I should probably make him something to eat. Maybe I can get him to take a few bites before he knocks out completely.

I head quietly toward the door, giving him a moment.

“Newt,” he murmurs.