Page 130 of Detectives in Love

The reply doesn’t come, and I hate to admit it—but there’s a pang of disappointment in my chest. I probably need to distract myself anyway, at least until Xavier’s better. Maybe I can go talk to the witnesses while he’s sleeping.

I take the milk off the stove and pour it into a cup. Then I put it on a tray, along with the plate, and head back to his bedroom.

When I open the door, I move quietly, just in case he’s already dozed off. But Xavier stirs, half-sitting up in the dim light.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse—like he didn’t expect me to come back.

“I brought you some food,” I say, stepping closer to the bed. “Eat something before you sleep. Please.”

“I’m still not hungry,” Xavier says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth—something that looks almost out of place on him.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, settling onto the edge of the bed and placing the tray on the comforter.

He shrugs instead of answering, sits in silence for a moment—then says, “A little desperate.”

“Desperate?” I frown.

“Yeah. That’s a new one for me,” he mutters, but doesn’t explain. He picks up an egg from the plate, turning it over in his hands instead of eating it, staring at it like it might have answers he needs. He doesn’t seem as out of it now. Maybe a little slow, but definitely in his right mind.

“I thought I might go talk to the witnesses while you rest,” I say, breaking the silence.

“I want to go with you,” he says immediately.

But I’m already shaking my head. “Not a chance, Xavier.”

Now it’s his turn to frown. Then something shifts in his expression—like he suddenly remembered something. He drops the egg back into the plate, throws the comforter off himself and jumps to his feet on the far side of the bed, sudden energy sparking through him as he rushes to the wardrobe.

“What are you doing?” I ask, startled, rising from the bed.

Xavier doesn’t answer. I watch him shrug off the half-worn shirt and let it fall to the floor. He pulls out a sweater and starts tugging it on.

I let out a frustrated sigh and circle the bed toward him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, watching him wrestle with the fabric. He doesn’t answer—just keeps struggling, grunting as his head and one arm get stuck in the sweater, the other nowhere near the second sleeve.

“Xavier.”

He pretends not to hear me and keeps fighting with it, so I step in, putting a hand on his arm. He freezes and finally looks at me.

“What?”

“You’re still poisoned, drugged, and exhausted,” I say, firm. “I’m not letting you out of the apartment.”

He lets out a loud sigh. “I need to go see Mrs. Bridge.”

“Not today,” I say, reaching to pull the sweater off him—but he catches my wrist, and we both go still. Just standing there, looking at each other.

His eyes are dark in the low light, his jaw tight. He looks at me like he’s angry but says nothing—as if he’s trying hard not to snap.

“Stay home, please,” I say, quieter now, reaching up to brush his cheek. “You need rest. You’re not yourself.”

He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into it almost instinctively—but then pulls back, his expression rigid. “Don’t touch me. Please,” he says, and there’s a thread of desperation in his voice.

“Oh. Sorry,” I say quickly, pulling my hand back. One of them, anyway. The other is still caught in his grip, suspended mid-air between us. A flush of embarrassment creeps in, catching somewhere in the back of my throat. Because yeah, I’ve been too liberal with my touches lately. More than I should have been.

I want to say something casual to break the tension, but my tongue feels heavy in my mouth, and my eyes start to sting.Great. Is that my reaction now? I really need to get out of here before I fully humiliate myself in front of Xavier.

So I force a lopsided smile—awkward, clearly fake—and start to pull my hand from his grip.