Page 96 of Detectives in Love

“Just let me look at you—”

“Newt.” His eyes meet mine in the dim light. “I’m fine.”

His grip tightens.

“You’re shaking…”

“I’m just cold. A bit out of it. It’ll pass…”

“Out of it?” A knot forms in my stomach.

“I was exposed to gasoline vapors too long…”

“What?!” I reach for the lamp again, but he pulls my hand back.

“I told you, I’m okay.”

My chest tightens. “How long were you breathing that stuff in?”

“It’s just gasoline, Newt, not toxic waste. Relax,” he mutters. “I’m mostly fine. My head hurts a little, my eyes are burning, I’m freezing, a bit dizzy—and a little nauseous.”

“Xavier, you do know how dangerous gasoline vapors are, right? It’s not just general poisoning—it can mess with your brain.”

“I’m fine.”

“We should call an ambulance.”

Xavier lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, clearly tired of arguing.

“Please, let’s not fight over this,” he says—and there’s a softness in his voice.

I exhale, anxiety pressing down on my chest.

“All right,” I say. “Come here, just lie down,” I add, pulling back the covers.

Xavier doesn’t hesitate. He climbs in beside me, and I pull the comforter over him.

“I’ll go make you some tea, grab some pills,” I say, starting to get up—but Xavier yanks me back by the elbow.

“Newt, please.” His voice is hoarse, quieter than before. “Please, just stay with me.”

He shifts over, closing the distance between us, curling up against my side. I wrap an arm around him and rub his back, trying to warm him up. He exhales a quiet sigh, like he’s finally letting himself relax, though I can still feel a faint tremor in his body.

All the frustration I’d had for him today melts away.

“Tell me, where were you, Xavier?” I ask, trying again.

“Mm,” he mutters. “At Rishetor’s.”

“Oh God… What were you doing there? Were you there all day?”

“Pretty much,” Xavier whispers, a tired but proud smile tugging at his lips. “I cracked the case, Newt…” We’re so close, but it feels natural—like we’ve done this a million times. “Henry Wakefield was working on some big o-off-ledger p-project.”

“What kind of project?” I say, my hand still absently rubbing his back.

“At Rishetor, he was setting up cryogenic containment for live biological agents. Private pharma and defense clients. No paper trail.”

“Containment? How did you figure that out?”