Detectives in Love

CHAPTER 1. PRESSED

The headline hits like a punch to the gut.

I sit at the kitchen table with a plate of scrambled eggs and a mug of coffee in front of me, and freeze—head spinning.

The Weekend Herald lies open on the table, glaring up at me like a neon sign.

My appetite disappears. The coffee goes cold in its mug, untouched. My heart slams against my ribs, my throat tightening as the oversized headline screams at me: “PARTNERS IN CRIME…AND BETWEEN THE SHEETS?”

The words are shameless, plastered across the first spread in stark black ink, daring me to look closer. Below the headline is a massive photograph flanked by two smaller ones—grainy and black-and-white, but the people in them are unmistakable.

My stomach churns as I take them in, horror mounting with every second. There we are—Xavier Ormond and me—caught on camera, looking way too intimate to explain.

The fork slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I don’t even care. All I can do is stare, my face burning with humiliation, my brain scrambling for answers.

Where the hell did these pictures come from? When were they taken? And most importantly—who took them?

The largest photo shows Xavier and me standing near our apartment building on Hickory Road.

Xavier’s wearing that dark blue shirt—the one that’s always a little too tight across his annoyingly broad shoulders—with a gray coat over it.

His hand is outstretched, casually adjusting the collar of my buttoned-up shirt beneath my unzipped winter jacket.

My throat tightens as I stare at the image.

I remember this moment all too well. It was less than a week ago, right after we wrapped up the case of the fashion model’s fake suicide.

On our way home, Xavier decided to entertain himself by “reading” me—like some absurd profiler, his gaze narrowing in mock concentration as he smirked and sized me up.

A wave of unease washes over me as I stare at the photo.

I remember this exact moment—but not like this.

I remember being annoyed by Xavier, defensive, my arms crossed tight over my chest. And yeah, they’re crossed in the photo—but I look…

thirsty. The way I’m staring at him—eyes practically heart-shaped, like I’m not just in love with him, but like I want him.

The idea that I might always look at him like that makes my stomach twist. My lips are parted, my gaze soft, my chest almost caving in, like his very presence is pressing down on me.

God, I couldn’t even blame this on photoshop or AI—no one could fake something like that.

That’s really me, unfiltered—and somehow, that makes it infinitely worse.

Does Xavier see it? Does he know how far gone I am for him? He must. But at least he has the decency to pretend he doesn’t. The whole world, though? They’re not going to be so kind to me.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

God, I’m so screwed.

***

“This buttoned-up look of yours says it all,” Xavier says, smugness practically oozing out of him.

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “Enlighten me—what does it say?”

“That you’re all discipline,” he declares, folding his arms like he’s giving a TED Talk. “It shows constraints and expectations. Society’s weight on your shoulders. Self-imposed limitations. Suppression. Self-control.”

I blink, deadpan. “Wow. And here I thought it just said I know how to dress myself.”

He chuckles, that familiar teasing edge making my chest tighten despite myself. His gaze holds mine, a glint of mischief in his eyes, like he’s toying with me—like he’s brushing his fingers down my spine without even touching me.

“You’re such a good boy,” Xavier continues, his tone silky. “It shows in everything you do—right down to the very last button.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Xavier. But I’m not one of your fangirls, so stop showing off.

I’m not a good boy—at least, not the way you think.

And as for my collar? It has nothing to do with your ridiculous theory. I just like it that way.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms, rolling my eyes for good measure. “It might be hard for you to believe, but some of us don’t enjoy showing off our bodies like you do.”

Xavier tilts his head, calm as ever, like I’m a child caught in a lie he saw through from the start.

“That’s not it either.”

I scowl. “Oh, really?”

His gaze drifts over me for a fraction of a second before locking back on my face. “You have a nice body.”

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. At our hands.

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 serious arguments 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.

But you 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.”

I frown, not sure what this is supposed to mean—and honestly, I don’t care. “We can’t be partners if you keep leaving me behind,” I say firmly.

For a few seconds, Xavier just looks at me, blinking like he’s processing what I said. Then, without a word, he turns away, his attention shifting to the snow-covered street outside the window.

***

After what happened at Little Italy, Xavier and I didn’t exchange a single word until the next morning.

“Good morning,” I said, glancing up from my plate as he walked into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Xavier muttered, his mood unmistakably sour.

That was the full extent of our conversation before my sister, Monica, called to invite me out for a drink later that evening.

Honestly, I was relieved for the excuse to leave the apartment.

Xavier was in one of his moods—the kind he always sinks into between cases.

Symptoms: loud sighing, pacing the apartment like a restless animal, and snapping at every question I dare to ask.