Page 57 of Detectives in Love

It takes less than twenty minutes for me to start regretting that decision.

The movie is slow, painfully sentimental, and relentlessly depressing. For the first half hour, Xavier’s clearly bored out of his mind—fidgeting next to me, topping off our wine when we haven’t even finished the last glasses, casting me looks like he’s begging me to turn it off but doesn’t want to say it out loud.

I don’t respond. I don’t even like the movie, but I like sitting here beside him.

Feeling the warmth radiating off his body.

Even if I couldn’t care less about what’s on the screen.

By the time the movie ends, the wine and chicken are long gone, and I’m sure it’s time to call it a night.

But then Xavier glances at me and says, “Wanna watch another?”

I blink at him, surprised. I’m tired, definitely ready to crash—but instead, I say yes.

We take a break, head into the kitchen to microwave some popcorn. Xavier disappears for a second, then comes back holding a bottle of whiskey, shaking it in front of me with a teasing smile.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I laugh.

He just looks at me for a beat. “Maybe.” Then turns and walks back into the living room.

And for once, it feels like we’ve left the chaos behind—the journalists, the conspiracies, the endless guessing games.

Now it’s just popcorn and whiskey chased with tea, another melodrama (P.S. I Love You), and the two of us sitting cross-legged on the carpet, the coffee table shoved off to the side.

To my surprise, Xavier doesn’t fidget this time. He sits through half the movie in silence, his whole mood shifted—gloomy, withdrawn.

I keep stealing glances at him, wondering if I should ask what’s wrong.

Outside, it’s fully dark. Through the curtains, I can see snow drifting past the streetlamps. The soft glow spills into the room, casting everything in a gentle, silver haze.

When I finally decide to say something, I shift to face him—our knees brush.

“Are you okay?” I ask, not really expecting a straight answer.

Xavier turns to me. “No.”

My pulse skips. His face is solemn, sad. I reach out, sliding an arm around his shoulder—and he doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t shake the feeling,” he says quietly. “From when you fell off the roof yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my chest tight.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he says, eyes flicking away. I can see how hard it is for him to admit it. “Kept thinking about it. What if you’d died.”

“Jesus, Xavier,” I whisper. I shift closer and wrap both arms around him, holding him properly now.

He doesn’t pull away—just leans in, tucking his face into the crook of my neck.

So that’s what it was. The dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the anxious glances and out-of-place apologies. He’s been worried. About me.

“I’m okay,” I murmur, running one hand down his back, the other brushing gently through his hair.

“For now,” he mutters against my skin. “You’re just this…temporary mix of carbs, calcium, phosphorus, and iron called Newt Doherty. And yesterday, because of me, you almost stopped existing.”

I can’t help it—I smile.

“It wasn’t that big of a fall,” I say, trying to keep it light. “And I’m not planning to die on you anytime soon. I promise.”