Page 161 of Detectives in Love

Mr. Waverly lets out a deep sigh. “Didn’t sleep much, Newton. I called Garrett this morning—he’ll be here in about an hour to change the locks.”

“Thanks,” I say. “We’re heading out soon, so just let yourself in.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Waverly nods. We stand in a moment of awkward silence before he adds, “Well, go on then. Glad to see you’re feeling better, Newton.”

“Thanks, Mr. Waverly,” I say with a smile.

“Call us if you need anything,” Mrs. Waverly adds, and then they’re gone.

I finish cleaning, even as my leg starts to protest. Once I’m done, I sink onto the couch and pull out my phone to check the news. One of the articles has a photo of me from yesterday—standing outside the house—under the headline:Doherty Makes a Statement.

I don’t bother reading it. I already know what it says.

I scroll through the news and spot a few more articles with pictures of me and Xavier, but I don’t bother clicking. After everything that’s happened, I’m not about to ruin the morning with gossip.

Then I come across aChroniclearticle—thankfully, not about us. There’s a photo of two men, and I recognize one of them as Minister Craig. The other looks familiar too, though I can’t place him. I figure he must be the special advisor caught up in the scandal.

I don’t know much about the scandal—just what Fred said when he came over—but I still feel for the Minister and his advisor. True or not, their story’s getting the same treatment: pulled out of context, spun into headlines, passed around for clicks.

Then I see the byline: Bernard Nimoy. I’ve only known him a week, but he struck me as a good guy—grounded, sharp, thoughtful. A real journalist. But even he, apparently, isn’t above publishing a piece like this.

Sure, Minister Craig’s a conservative with a wife and kids, and yeah, the hypocrisy makes it messier. But after everything with Xavier and me, I’m not sure I can stomach that kind of gossip anymore.

I check the time and wonder if I’ve got enough to shower before we head out. Probably—but I’m not convinced wrapping my leg in plastic will actually keep the bandages dry. I hesitate, then decide to try.

Xavier must be out of the bathroom by now, so I grab clean clothes from my room and head to the kitchen to find the plastic wrap. The whole thing feels ridiculous—and I must look it too, walking down the hall with a pile of clothes and a roll of cling film awkwardly tucked under my arm.

With my hands full, I try to push the bathroom door open with my elbow—only for it to swing inward and send me stumbling right into Xavier.

He catches me around the waist, steadying me. He’s warm. Damp. And when I look up, I realize—he’s just out of the shower. I go still.

My gaze skims the wet line down his neck, across his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach and the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the towel. It hangs low on his hips, slung like an afterthought.

My throat goes dry.

“Sorry,” I mumble, straightening and forcing my hands off his biceps.

But he doesn’t let go. He just looks at me—eyes dark, breath uneven—then says, “Do you need help?”

“Uh,” I say, not immediately sure what he means.

“With your leg,” Xavier clarifies.

“Ah. No,” I say, my voice catching. I clear my throat. “We need to head out soon, so I’ll be quick.”

He holds my gaze for a moment, unreadable. Then he nods. “Alright.” And lets me go.

“Thanks,” I say as he steps past me, heading out of the room. “I’ll be out soon.”

Xavier nods but doesn’t say anything else.

***

An hour later, we’re finally out of the apartment, and it’s snowing again—soft, wet flakes that melt the second they hit the ground, leaving the pavement dark and slick.

As we get into the stuffy car, Xavier doesn’t say a word—just slides in beside me, our shoulders brushing. He’s been quiet ever since our awkward run-in in the bathroom, but I’m not sure if it’s something I did or if he’s just in one of his bad moods.

He’s nothing like he was this morning—tense now, withdrawn. As soon as we settle into the back seat, he folds his arms tight across his chest and stares at the back of the driver’s seat like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.