Page 44 of Detectives in Love

“You okay?” Xavier says, already kneeling in front of me. “Should we call a doctor?”

I glance at him. He’s frowning again—real concern in his eyes—and I can’t help smiling a little. Wow. IsXavier Ormondactually suggesting we call a doctor? The same guy who won’t take an aspirin unless he’s knocking on death’s door?

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “If I don’t puke or pass out in the next hour, we’re good.”

“Okay,” he says—but somehow, that seems to worry him even more. “Need help?” He tips his chin toward the ceiling. “Getting upstairs?”

I shake my head. “Can’t sleep yet. Gotta wait—just in case I actually gave myself a concussion this time.”

“Okay.” Xavier gets up, pulls the battered case file from his pocket, and tosses it onto the table. “Then let’s eat.”

“Eat? In the middle of the night?” I can’t help smirking. “Xavier, are you feeling alright? What happened to your precious circadian rhythms?”

“We need something to kill time.” He raises an eyebrow, all mock innocence. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

For half a second, his gaze drops—to my lips. Then flicks back up.

My breath catches.

Heat flares up my neck. Why did that sound so—hot? Is he flirting with me? No, that’s impossible. I probablydohave a concussion.

I get up and turn away, heading for the cupboards, suddenly very invested in making tea. Anything to hide whatever the hell my face is doing. Avoiding his gaze feels like the safest option.

By the time the tea’s ready, my face is back under control. We settle in, sipping from our mugs as the conversation drifts—from the Rishetor case to the sheer absurdity of our night—until somehow we end up on Ernest and Monica.

For once, it doesn’t feel like we’re world-famous detectives or two people always caught in the middle ofsomething life-or-death. It’s just…us. Like we’re normal. Just two friends talking about their annoying relatives.

By 4:30, Xavier’s yawns start breaking through the conversation. He goes quieter, his eyes staying shut a little longer each time.

“Go to bed,” I tell him.

“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, blinking hard.

I snort. “Sure, and I’m the Pope.”

He ignores me, but I catch the way his head tips slightly, the fight against exhaustion starting to slip. I don’t push. It’s almost nice, knowing he’s trying to stay awake for me.

At 5:10, I finally cave. “I’m showering,” I announce, standing up.

Xavier, slouched in his chair, straightens up. “Try not to concuss yourself again, please.”

I roll my eyes and leave him in the kitchen, my phone flashlight guiding the way through the dark. When I reach the bathroom, I flick the switch out of habit—even though I already know it won’t do a damn thing.

I lock the door, wash my hands, then strip off my jeans, tossing them into the laundry pile. I grab the hem of my sweater and start to pull—

Pain.

A sharp, electric stab tears through my left shoulder. My vision whites out, the shock of it knocking the breath clean from my lungs.

I grip the cold porcelain sink, teeth clenched, willing myself to breathe. Okay. Not great.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait it out. When I finally blink back at my reflection, I look like hell. Or maybe that’s just the flashlight playing tricks.

I draw another slow breath through my nose. Alright. New plan—move slower.

I ease the sweater up, leaving it bunched around my neck, my left arm still caught in the sleeve, and step toward the mirror. Hooking a finger under the strap of my undershirt, I tug it down just enough to see. Fresh bruises bloom across my shoulder, dark against my skin and layered over old scars. I press my fingers into the largest one and curse under my breath.

Fuck.