Page 2 of Detectives in Love

The air between us tightens, like a string pulled taut. My face burns as I scramble for a response.

“Well, I’m not as young as you, and I don’t have as many muscles,” I blurt, the words spilling out too fast.

“You’re thirty-four,” Xavier says slowly, mock thoughtful. A faint, wry smile tugs at his lips. “Only three years older than me. And I’ve seen you naked—you’ve got plenty of muscle.”

The memory hits like a slap, heat flooding my face. I know exactly what he’s talking about—the day he found me on the brink of death on the Carver’s dissection table. But even now, just hearing him say it makes my neck burn.

I cough, clearing my throat and shifting from one foot to the other. “Okay, maybe I don’t like people staring at my scars,” I mutter, looking anywhere but at him.

“No,” Xavier says, shaking his head like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Still not it.”

Before I can react, he steps forward and undoes the collar button of my shirt. I jolt back, a whimper escaping my lips before I can stop it.

“What the hell are you doing—?”

“Nothing.” He smirks, his expression smug, and then, just like that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the building before I can even respond.

***

The other two photos are from Little Italy, the cozy restaurant on Burch Street with windows decked out in Christmas garlands, branches, and twinkling lights. In both shots, Xavier has a plate of steak in front of him, while I have a salad and a cup of coffee.

They were taken the night before last—I remember it vividly. The first one, taken from inside the restaurant, shows Xavier staring out the window at the snow-covered street. His right hand rests in the middle of the table, so close to mine that, from this angle, it almost looks like we’re holding hands. Who even managed to capture that? Worse, in the photo, I’m looking down—at his hand. Atourhands.

The second photo is taken from outside, through the frosted glass. It shows us leaning forward on our elbows, our faces so close it looks like we’re about to kiss. The intensity in our gazes is…unsettling, even to me. To anyone else, it would definitely raise questions.

That night, we’d just closed another case, and instead of celebrating, we ended up having one of our more seriousarguments over dinner. Not that you’d ever guess from these pictures. In the photos, we look…intimate. As if we didn’t spend most of the meal trading pointed remarks and barely masking our frustration.

It’s strange how a single snapshot can rewrite reality, freezing a moment in time and erasing everything that came before or after. A version of us that only exists in media rumors, not in the mundane, complicated reality we actually share.

***

“So, you lied to everyone.”

“Yes.”

“Everyone, including me,” I say, my jaw tightening.

Xavier blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Are you offended?”

“No. Why would I be?” I snort, but the sarcasm barely hides the irritation in my voice. “Well…maybe a little.”

Something flickers in his eyes—confusion, maybe?—as he runs a hand through his hair, a rare sign of frustration.

I glance down at my untouched salad, pick up my fork, and halfheartedly poke at a slice of tomato. I flip it over, then set the fork down on the napkin, my appetite completely gone.

“Damn it, Xavier,” I say, my voice trembling with barely contained anger. “We’re supposed to be partners. You can’t just lie to me and treat me like I’m a pawn in one of your plans. You don’t trust me. You always leave me out of the big picture, and, in the end, it puts both of us in danger. Butyou can’t keep doing this. Not if you want us to keep working together.”

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, refusing to look at him as my heart thunders in my throat.

“Newt.”

“What?”

Xavier’s eyes are on me, his brow furrowed like he’s searching for something he can’t quite find. He hesitates, then says, “It’s not…it doesn’t mean I don’t trust you.”

“Then what does it mean?”

There’s something almost somber in the way his blue eyes hold mine, something heavy I can’t quite pin down. He motions vaguely between us and says, his voice so quiet it nearly blends into the hum of the restaurant, “I’m not used to…this.”