Page 184 of Detectives in Love

Xavier:How did she even get my number? Please tell me she didn’t talk to Ernest

Then there’s a two-hour silence before the next message.

Xavier:I miss you

I sit up, my chest tight, my pulse loud in my ears. A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed Xavier was capable of saying something like that—even over text. But these past few days, the stakes have been so high, I think we crossed a line that brought us closer.

I read the next messages, my eyes stinging.

Xavier:I can’t sleep without you anymore

Xavier:I keep thinking—what if the doctors were wrong and you really got shot

Xavier:I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re okay

And then the last message, sent fifty minutes ago:

Xavier:I love you

Shit—I’m crying now, tears slipping down my cheeks. I don’t know if it’s the drugs they gave me or the fact that I could’ve lost him yesterday, but my chest aches like something’s breaking. I wipe my eyes and type a message through the blur.

Me:I just woke up, Xavier. I’m great, I’m fine!

Me:Are you alright?

I figured he was still awake, but it still surprises me when the reply comes almost instantly.

Xavier:Yes, I’m fine

Xavier:How are you feeling?

Considering how worried he’s been, I’d lie even if I felt terrible—but truthfully, I’m doing pretty well for someone who got shot three times last night.

Me:Great, I’m fine!

I pause for a second, then type the next one.

Me:I miss you

It’s bold, maybe, but after what he texted me, I don’t think playing it safe makes much sense.

Xavier:I miss you too

Xavier:What does the doctor say?

I smile stupidly at the screen before answering.

Me:They need to run some tests this morning, but I think I’m fine

Me:I really want to go home

There’s a long pause, and I start to wonder if Xavier’s fallen asleep. I lie there, tapping my screen to keep it from locking, waiting for his reply. After ten minutes, my eyes start to close—sleep creeping in.

That’s when my phone buzzes.

I blink awake to see an incoming call from Xavier.

“Xavier?” I answer, heart already racing, spinning through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe Bernard escaped police custody and broke into our apartment—this time to kill him.