Arlo spends the rest of his shift tuning out what’s left of the angry mob and filling out page after page of paperwork. The hours seem to slog on endlessly. When 5pm finally comes around, he shoots out of his seat at lightning speed, almost knocking a stack of files to the ground.

  “In a hurry, are we?” Sophie ughs, suddenly next to Arlo’s desk. He chuckles sheepishly, awkwardly attempting to reorganise the now-dishevelled pile.

  “I, um, I actually have someone waiting for me, so I just need to get home to make sure he’s okay and …stuff, I guess.”

  “Stuff?” She smirks, eyebrow raised at the fumbling detective. Arlo’s eyes widen in horrified realisation.

  “Oh my god, no. Nothing like that. I didn’t realise how bad that sounded. We barely know each other, I’m just helping him out. I’m fairly certain the guy’s homeless.”

  “Rex, I’m just kidding.” Her smirk softens into a friendly smile. “Did you want a lift?”

  Reciprocating her smile, he nods. “Thanks.”

  The decision to have Eli wait for him to arrive home was one Arlo was struggling with. On one hand, he felt like he was doing a bit of good for the world, which massively aided the same hero complex that fueled his career, but on the other hand, Eli was still a stranger. A stranger with a charming smile, wicked sense of humour, and an accent he could probably listen to forever - (What are you saying, Arlo? Snap out of it.) - but a stranger nonetheless.

  “So tell me about this homeless guy.” Sophie breaks the silence as they walk to her motorbike that’s parked on the far side of the car park. “Did he approach you for help somewhere or…?” She trails off, unsure of how to finish her query. Arlo runs a hand through his hair, equally as unsure of how to answer. He couldn’t confess that Eli was an active witness, not even to Sophie. They were friendly, but they weren’t exactly at a level where he could be sure that she wouldn’t run to the captain if she found out what he was doing. Noting the silence on Arlo’s part, Sophie adds, “I just can’t imagine how a situation like that would even start.”

  Arlo clears his throat, “He was lost a few nights ago. Not his town, I guess. It was raining and dark, and I just thought he’d be better off inside than toughing it out, so I just kinda… brought him home.”

  Sophie blinks at him, a vague expression of arm shadowing her face, “You weren’t concerned he’d rob you? Or like - I don't know - attack you? He could be a murderer for all you know.”

  “...I guess not.” When she put it like that, Arlo couldn’t deny that it sounded a little bit absurd and incredibly reckless. He climbs onto the back of Sophie’s motorcycle, his furrowed eyebrows hidden by the visor of the spare helmet she had offered him. It seemed like all he had done for the st few days was make poor, dangerous decisions, and for what? He didn’t know; all he knew was that Sophie’s questions had made him completely reconsider the path he was on concerning Elijah Asher. Anxiety grows deep in his chest the closer they get to his apartment building. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the roaring vehicle to grind to a halt.

  Sophie’s motorbike screeches off the pavement as she pulls away from Arlo’s building, leaving him behind with a “see you tomorrow” and a wave. He had had her drop him off around the corner, so as to prepare himself before seeing Eli again. He takes a deep breath, wills his anxiety to calm, and approaches the building, already spying the familiar mess of hair he had spent so long analysing the previous night. Eli was leaning up against a wall, staring directly at the setting sun and whistling a song Arlo didn’t recognise, but sounded vaguely ft. Arlo couldn’t help but stare, if only for a few seconds. Shaking his head, he refocuses and his mind wanders back to Sophie’s words. He knew what he had to do. He also knew how much it was going to pain him to do so.

  “Hi.” Arlo shoves his hands in his pockets nervously, and Eli turns at the sound of his voice, sporting his usual charming smile.

  “Detective.” The sheer joy imbued in his voice gives Arlo pause and conflicts his emotions further. Letting this man down wasn’t something he wanted to do, but to let a stranger back into his house was not, by any means, smart.

  “Arlo.” He breathed, correcting Eli with the smallest of smiles. Quickly, before anything more is said between them, he continues, “If you want to wait here, I’ll go get you a drink and something warm to wear. I’ll sit out here with you for a bit.”

  Arlo watches in painful slow-motion as Eli’s smile momentarily falters at the realisation he's unwelcome back inside. It was only for a split second, but it felt like an eternity. Refusing to meet his eyes, Arlo hurriedly moves past and busies himself with the keypad on the door. He had expected Eli to respond in some way, but he simply stood motionless for a moment before sitting on the concrete, waiting patiently.

  The kettle seems to take an hour to boil, all the while Arlo stares bnkly at the two empty mugs on the counter before him. This was ridiculous. He had never had this much trouble sorting out his thoughts before. He was always incredibly methodical, but now it was as if there was a knotty ball of string wrapping itself around and around his brain, squeezing all the coherence and sensible thoughts out, leaving him with only the confusing ones - the ones that involve feelings instead of facts. It was messy, and there was nothing that unnerved him more than his brain being messy. The click of the kettle snaps him out of his spiral, and he fills the mugs, preparing to carry them down four flights of stairs - hopefully - without spilling them all over himself.

  His journey down the mountain of stairs is rgely unproblematic, and he emerges from the front door, momentarily blinded by the setting sun warming the pavement. Eli seemed to be readily enjoying the exposure - his eyes were closed, and his head gently tipped up toward the beams. Certain strands of his brunette locks were illuminated in the light, glowing a bright golden colour. Arlo stands, mesmerised by the sight and, once again, confused and conflicted at his physical response to this man. Quite honestly, he was exhausted. Exhausted at not being able to determine his feelings, exhausted at hiding them - whatever they were - and exhausted at being exhausted. Suddenly remembering the steaming drinks in his hands, he steps toward Eli and awkwardly bends down to sit beside him, handing the mug over in the process. Eli gratefully accepts, and Arlo can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head, just as they did st night. He can’t bring himself to meet them, though, instead focusing intently on a tree shivering in the breeze on the opposite side of the road. Neither of them breaks the deafening silence between them until Eli gnces down at the drink he’d been handed, and a smile spreads quickly across his face.

  “Tea?”

  Arlo, still pointedly not looking at the now-grinning man next to him, sips his coffee and nods, “Pocketed a couple of teabags from the break room at work. I figured it was favourable over the puddle water.”

  Hearing Eli ugh makes Arlo give in. He turns to face him, and every sense in his body is instantly overwhelmed with every little detail of the face before him. His eyes dart rapidly between the little creases at the corners of his mouth, to the glint in his entrancingly hazel eyes, to the fresh pink tint of his skin - a gift, no doubt, from the sun now rapidly disappearing behind the trees. His ugh was like no other, his Irish lilt transforming the sound into beautiful birdsong the moment it left his lips. Arlo was sure he had never appreciated the sheer aesthetic of any other human being as much as he did at this very moment. Despite the anxiety he had felt mere moments ago, he couldn’t ignore the fact that his brain was finally quiet. Listening to that ugh and sitting in his company was remarkably soothing.

  Taking another sip, he queries, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Eli replies simply, sipping his own drink.

  “Why on earth do you smell like half a garden centre?” Arlo smirks, eyebrows raised and amused at the sheer charming absurdity of this man to look, sound, and smell the way he does.

  “You like it?” Eli teases, wiggling his eyebrows at the detective. It was a good thing the sun had already rendered Arlo’s cheeks pink before Eli managed to with one silly question.

  They sit there chatting about everything and nothing all at once until their mugs grow dry and the sky turns varying shades of bck and blue like a watercolour painting. Arlo, finding a certain comfort in Eli’s company, spends most of the time talking about Cara, his job, and his borderline insane Cluedo fixation. It isn’t until his stomach grumbles in protest that he realises Eli hasn’t said a word in an hour or so, instead opting to just intently listen, hanging on every sentence that tumbles from Arlo’s mouth in a cascading waterfall of word vomit.

  Embarrassingly, the grumble is heard by both parties, as it elicits a simple, “Hungry?” from a now-verbal Eli.

  Arlo’s face reddens again, and he feels a pang of guilt at the notion of leaving to feed himself, abandoning the man on the pavement of whom he was sure hadn’t eaten a proper meal in who-knows-how-long. He could invite him in, but then… Sophie’s words came chiming back in his head, steamrolling that idea. There was no morally right decision, but there was a professionally correct one, and Arlo - being a man of rules and sensibility - took it.

  “I suppose I should go back inside and find something to eat then.”

  “Sounds like a grand idea. If you starve to death, who’s going to help me when I’m lost?” Eli quipped, winking.

  Arlo smiles sadly at the ground and rises to his feet. He ments the fact that he can’t even offer to bring something to eat outside, knowing full well that his refrigerator y barren and he was probably going to resort to cereal for dinner again. His mind flicks through every possible way to say goodbye, stressing over particurs and social niceties, before his thoughts are interrupted.

  “Goodbye, detective.” Eli chuckles, his usual farewell stalling Arlo’s anxiety.

  Walking up the four flights of stairs for the second time that day, Arlo stares at the scuff marks on his shoes, feeling terribly guilty and still as confused as ever. He rarely gnces up to check his path, except for when his downstairs neighbour - the young woman he had encountered with Eli on their trip up to his ft yesterday - breezes past him hastily, talking loudly on her phone and almost knocking him clean over in the process. Usually, Arlo was the type to try and figure out why people were in such a hurry; were they wearing business clothes and carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers? Probably te for work. Party dress paired with a bag so tiny it can’t even hold a single credit card? The club must’ve opened. He never understood why people were always in such a hurry, but then again, oftentimes so was he. Now, though, he doesn’t theorise, wonder, or specute where the neighbour was off to so te; his mind feels much too clouded, so he continues upwards to his floor.

  His apartment feels emptier than usual, having left his company on the pavement. He shuts the front door behind him and pces the now-empty mugs on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. He leans against the back of the sofa and exhales, eyes closed and head tipped toward the ceiling, an expression of internal conflict spreading across his face. Opening his eyes, he takes a step toward the window overlooking the street below and dares to peek down to the pavement on which he left his companion sitting. Sighing, he pulls away from the gss. The street was once again empty - Eli had swiftly disappeared.

  ?

  The glow of the setting sun burns Eli’s skin and causes tiny droplets of sweat to bead on his forehead as he hurries down the street, away from Arlo’s building. His stare was sharp and focused, his lips pressed together in concentration, not unlike a lion readying itself to strike at its unsuspecting prey. The desire to stop in his tracks and walk away from the situation he found himself in was overwhelming, but he knew it was futile. Perhaps this was his true calling in life - remove the mould and stop the infection. It was as good an excuse as any. Every couple of strides he takes, he quickly looks around, observing the other people on the street around him before zeroing back in on the back of the head of the unlucky person walking just a few yards ahead. He wants to reach out and csp a hand around their mouth, silencing them as he drags them off into an alleyway before ending their pathetic little life, but he refrained, instead stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth in annoyance. If he was thankful for one thing, it was that he frequently went through life unnoticed, a lucky happenstance that was incredibly well utilised in these unfortunate situations. Although he clearly wasn’t unnoticed by everyone - a certain dark-haired detective, for instance, seemingly had quite an interest in him, at least, enough to invite him into his home. The pavement was a step back, he has to admit, although not entirely unreasonable, he supposes. The thought of Arlo makes the corner of Eli’s mouth twitch and his eyes sparkle, but only for a fleeting second - he can’t afford to be too distracted, especially when his target has just given him such a convenient opportunity.

  He watches as their belongings tumble from the now-broken bag they had zily slung around their shoulder. Eli’s eyes dart between each item as they fall, mentally taking notes and formuting scenarios and possibilities regarding each one. As an old blue biro ctters to the ground, he imagines whisking it off the floor and embedding it into its owner's neck. But then again - the blood. He changes focus to a bottle of pills rolling a short way away from the rest of the items, and he pictures forcing every one of them down their throat until they start convulsing on the pavement, that is - of course - if they don’t choke to death first. Both options were subpar at best, damn idiotic at worst. Eli pulls his focus away from the items and onto the other people within eyesight. Most vacate the street fairly quickly, but irritatingly, two people across the road decide to stop and have a friendly chat directly opposite where he is fast approaching the window of opportunity. He has to think quickly. Oddly enough, an unfamiliar panic begins to set in, but he has to do this.

  For Arlo.

  One more step, and he’d be too close, too te. He’ll have to walk right past. But suddenly, his chance becomes clear. As the unsuspecting person crouches to the ground, gathering the scattered items rolling away, they reach out to pce a half-drunk to-go cup carefully on the low wall of the adjacent house. Without a second to hesitate, Eli seizes the opportunity. With a swift, practised motion, he grasps the familiar gss bottle in his pocket, uncaps it, and lets a single drop fall into the cup as he passes, executing the move with remarkable dexterity and confidence. All time seems to slow as he turns a corner at the end of the pavement, leaving the grim scenario to py out to its grizzly end behind him.

  He was almost three whole streets away before he heard the sirens.

  ?

  Arlo stares at the ceiling, willing the entire thing to come crashing down on top of him. His eyes grow heavy, and his stomach makes a low growling noise as he repys the st few hours he spent with Eli in his head hundreds of times over. Sophie’s warning rings like a siren in his head - “He could be a murderer for all you know.” What kind of detective doesn’t know whether they’re talking to a homicidal maniac or not? He squeezes his eyes shut as a stinging sensation forms behind his right eye and engulfs his head in a cloak of white-hot pain. Sophie’s voice was so prevalent that he began to believe she was in the room, screaming her constant warnings directly into his ears. She repeats the notion twice - five times - ten times - at a perfect pace just like a siren. A siren.

  …a siren?

  His eyes shoot open, and he flinches as the light floods in, inducing another wave of agony. Granted, he hadn’t lived in the building a remarkably long time, but even still, never had he heard any ambunce sirens disrupting the vilge peace. Until the canal guy, all the deaths in this town were either from old age or illness, and neither warranted as much urgency as a speeding ambunce brought. He rises to his feet with difficulty and stumbles to the window as fast as his pounding head allows. He pulls a cord and the blinds suddenly drop, cttering on the windowsill and igniting a different point of pain behind his previously unaffected left eye. Muttering expletives, he fumbles for the other end of the cord and once again pulls, this time raising the blinds and letting the outside world in. Craning his neck against the gss, he looks down the street in the direction of the noise, but to no avail - the apartment building was set back too far on the pavement to be able to peer around the rows of houses adjacent to it. As Arlo ponders whether or not he should leave the ft and investigate, another wave of pain crashes down upon him, this time bringing its unruly companions - nausea and dizziness. He didn’t suppose he would be able to hobble to the kitchen cabinet for migraine meds, let alone descend multiple flights of stairs without needing the forthcoming ambunce himself. Instead, he colpses back onto the sofa and curls up, hoping that sleep will come easily and fast.

  Arlo stirs awake as he feels familiar fingertips brush his arm, tracing little circles from his elbow down to his wrist. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in response as he finds comfort in the sensation and inhales the scent of muted roses and fresh coffee swirling around the room. His eyelids flutter open and his vision comes into focus on Eli’s long, brown eyeshes and captivating blue-green eyes. He watches his pupils dite as they gaze at each other for what feels like more than an hour and less than a second all at once.

  “Morning, Detective,” Eli utters those two words in that captivating Irish lilt and a calmness settles over the small apartment scene. Arlo’s attention trends down toward his lips as he watches every tiny movement of every tiny word the man in front of him speaks. It feels like a month passes before Arlo responds, croaking out a small, hushed, “good morning”. Taking his hand back, Eli reaches behind him and produces a fresh, steaming mug of coffee.

  “Your puddle water, love.” They both giggle in harmonic tones as Arlo takes a sip, burning the tip of his tongue in doing so, but he feels no pain and pays it no mind as he straightens himself, sitting up to make room for Eli to sit beside him. It isn’t long before he speaks again,

  “So, what do you want to do today? Monopoly, Cluedo, Trivial Pursuit…?” Gesturing to the small table in front of the sofa, Arlo’s eyes scan over the pile of various board games he hadn’t noticed were there and nd on one old, tattered box he had been carting around since he was small,

  “Scrabble?” Arlo asks, hopefully. Eli smiles, amused.

  “You only pick Scrabble because you know you always win.”

  “Maybe you should try harder to beat me then,” Arlo says, shrugging and grinning impishly. Eli narrows his eyes, still grinning, and shakes his head slightly. After a few seconds, he throws his hands up in defeat.

  “Fine!”

  Arlo blinks and the world wanes and waxes, the edges polychromatic and blurry, it stalls him for a second but the sight of Eli kneeling next to the coffee table, poring over an empty Scrabble board and his small tray of seven letter tiles with seemingly agonising concentration relieves him of the unsavoury feeling. Eli pces four tiles on the board, careful to center them perfectly in each square.

  “There,” he says, resting back on his heels, “your turn.” Arlo leans forward, inspecting the new word on the board - ‘REAL’.

  “Really?” He queries, raising an eyebrow at the board, “You only had one point tiles?” Eli rolls his eyes in mock irritation.

  “All my tiles are absolute crap, I have, like, twenty-seven ‘A's, it’s not my fault.”

  Grinning, Arlo pces his own tiles on the board, crossing Eli’s ‘L’ - ‘LOCKJAW’. His opponent’s eyes widen as he mentally takes score of the letters.

  “Christ, Arlo, that’s forty-six points already!” Arlo smiles innocently and Eli’s eyes narrow once again, “Are you cheating?”

  Arlo scoffs. “Do you even know me?” “You’re using some kind of magic Scrabble word calcutor, aren’t you?” Cackling at this familiar accusation, Eli takes the opportunity to lunge at Arlo, knocking him backwards in the process. Laying ft on his back with Eli atop him, his brain knows no words, no anxiety, just euphoria. They both giggle endlessly as Eli begins to rifle through Arlo’s pockets for his phone, exciming that he must be using some sort of “magic Scrabble app to win all the time”.

  After a while, the giggles die down and the final resulting tears of amusement slip from Arlo’s eyes as Eli colpses on the floor beside him. In the chaos, they had managed to jostle the table so much that Scrabble tiles were scattered all across the surrounding area, but neither of them seemed to notice nor care. Catching his breath, Arlo grins and says,

  “That may have been the shortest game of Scrabble I’ve ever pyed.” Taking a breath, he quickly adds, “And I don’t cheat!” He waits for the response, the comeback, but there is none. Instead, Eli just looks at him, inspecting him, as if he were cataloguing every pore on his face for ter reference. His grin had faded into a content smile, and his sparkling eyes looked as if they were attempting to say a million words a minute. Arlo watches them flick down to his lips as if in slow motion. The space between them lessens as Eli leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Arlo’s and sending electricity right down to his fingertips. Gently, he trails his hand up from where it was resting at Arlo’s pocket, igniting a trail of fire along the length of his arm, behind his neck, and up into his hair, rendering the detective breathless. They both close their eyes, and with it, the space between them.

  Intertwined, yet still too far away, they both long achingly to push forward, allowing their lips to touch, but neither do, instead opting to just exist millimetres apart for one more moment, as if they had all the time in the universe.

  The scent of muted roses and fresh coffee begins to wane, though, as does the world.

  Arlo jolts awake, flushed and glistening with sweat. Groaning, he buries his head in his hands.

  “Oh, fucking hell.”