The one thing Eli never accounted for was the ck of furniture. Waking up in a small puddle of drool on the kitchen isnd made him yearn for the hotel mattresses he so often passed out on. He groans and tries to push himself up and off the cold countertop before he’s painfully reminded that his right arm is, in fact, incredibly broken. He yelps and hisses through gritted teeth - in comparison, even tossing and turning on a soggy park bench was comfier than how he’d spent the st nine hours. Trying to ignore the pain and blinking away the morning blur, Eli gazes around his new steadings in the crity of daylight. Turning the lights on the night before would’ve been too risky - the moment anyone saw the glow emanating from around the blinds or under the door, his cover would’ve been blown. Looking around now, though, he takes note of all the defining details of the apartment: the light-coloured minate flooring that seems to glow when hit by the sun, the freshly painted stark white walls that almost hurt to look at, and the glossy bck kitchenette, polished within an inch of its life. Interestingly, whilst maintaining a simir yout, this ft looked very little like Arlo’s - it was almost as if somebody had taken the detective’s home and inverted all the colours. Eli’s eyes scan across the room and nd in the corner, where his phone y abandoned on the floor, still attached to its charger. A grin spreads across his face as he hops off the counter and starts toward it. As he crosses the door, though, the sound of somebody in the corridor causes him to halt. Holding his breath, he listens, praying it wasn’t the ndlord coming to inspect the ft with some hopeful new tenant. The stairs creak as Eli hears the footsteps of someone flying down them, clearly in a rush to get somewhere. As the footsteps near, so does a voice.

  “Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.” Expletives fly past the door in a cacophony of panic. Eli’s grin returns to him - it was Arlo’s voice. The hurried sounds fade as quickly as they start, and he exhales.

  Finally retrieving and unlocking his phone, Eli’s met with the answer to the question of why the detective was in such a rush - it was already half past eleven in the morning. It seems he was incredibly te for work. It would be right for Eli to feel a little bad, it was, after all, his fault that Arlo was te, but he just can’t bring himself to wipe the smile off his face. Lowering to sit cross-legged on the floor, he opens their messages to one another and scrolls back to reread the conversation.

  Hi. How was your night?

  Are you alive?

  Hi detective :)

  Hi.

  Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you in a while.

  Never been better

  I’m sorry I missed your call

  This thing has been dead for 3 days

  Where have you been sleeping?

  Oh you know

  Here and there

  Eli.

  Arlo.

  I’m worried about you.

  I’m fttered, but why?

  Well firstly I’m pretty sure you’ve just spent 3 nights on a park bench, and secondly you’re texting remarkably well which leads me to believe you’re not Eli at all.

  Ah well I do have to delete and retype every other word so “remarkably well” might be an exaggeration

  I didn’t sleep on a park bench

  Where then?

  Penthouse ;)

  Penthouses have plug sockets, you know.

  Well then

  Colour me blind as a bat

  Please just tell me you’re safe.

  I’m safe

  Good.

  Arlo?

  Yes?

  I miss you

  Oh

  Oh my? Oh gosh? Oh no?

  “Oh” can be a full sentence.

  Oh

  No I still think it’s half a sentence at least

  Can I see you again?

  I don’t know, I’m working a lot tely.

  Maybe.

  I really don’t know if it’s a good idea, you being a witness and all, it could affect… things.

  Calm down, detective, I’m not asking you on a date or anything

  I just like talking to you

  You’re the longest conversation I’ve had in a while

  And anyway, surely that robbery was an open and shut case?

  Those boys were hardly criminal masterminds, there’s no way I’m still an active witness

  Fair point. They were caught like twenty minutes after they ran, it was really pathetic.

  I like talking to you too.

  But right now, I have to sleep.

  So soon? I feel like we’ve only just started talking

  It’s been 2 hours, you just take a decade and a half to text back.

  I csn typw fadster bt it’ll look likr this

  Goodnufht Arlo :)

  Goodnight, Eli.

  It wasn’t the longest, nor the most exciting conversation in the world, but unlike the talks they’d had that Eli swore he could’ve just imagined, this was permanent. Physical. He could reread to his heart’s content and know that it was real. Coming off of four days with no real sleep, he needed that. Eli gnces again at the time stamps from the st few messages. They had finished their conversation near 2am, no wonder Arlo overslept his arms. Fleetingly, Eli hopes that perhaps the news of his safety is a big part of the reason the detective slept so soundly, but he shakes the thought away. Daydreaming about the thoughts and feelings of the man he’s so shamelessly enamoured with has to py second fiddle to his stomach, which lets out an almighty roar of starvation, reminding Eli just how long it’s been since his st meal. Struggling one-armed off of the floor, he moves hopefully toward the refrigerator. Pulling it open, though, he’s met only with a bright white light and disappointment. The cabinets don’t yield anything either, unsurprisingly. No bed, no lights, and now no food. At least the ndlord hadn’t removed the bathroom suite - that would’ve been disastrous. Casting his mind back to the previous night, Eli vaguely remembers the whirring electrical sound of an old, dipidated vending machine in the building’s foyer and hopes that, with any luck, the machine still has something edible inside. Pausing to take a long drink from the kitchen tap and gather his phone and charger back into his pockets, he cautiously slips out of the ft unnoticed.

  The vending machine is in a worse state than Eli initially remembers - one quick tap to the bottom of the box with his shoe causes the flickering light inside to die altogether. However, there’s one item teetering on the edge of one of the shelves that he’s determined to retrieve. Gripping the top of the box with his one good arm, he shakes it roughly, coaxing the bag free. The satisfying thud of the packet hitting the bottom of the machine fills Eli with glee as he bends down to cim the breakfast of champions: one incredibly dusty, out-of-date, tiny pack of salted peanuts. As breakfasts go, it is unsatisfactory, to say the least, but he supposes it’ll do just fine for now. Not greatly satiated, but no longer on the brink of colpse, Eli ponders what to do with the day ahead. Leaning against the vending machine, he pokes and prods at his arm, trying to pinpoint where the bone had snapped, silently evaluating the severity of the situation. The thought of possibly needing to go to a hospital sends shivers down his spine. It was ironic, really - how a man who so often engaged in the dangerous activities that he did had a phobia of hospitals. Yet, it had always been, and remained to this day, his only one. Thankfully, the bone isn’t shattered. As far as Eli can tell with his admittedly cklustre medical knowledge, it’s a retively clean break - one that’ll hopefully be solved with a makeshift splint and some caution. That doesn’t stop the pain from radiating through the entire right side of his body, though, and he groans in agony, retrospectively regretting the self-examination. After a few moments, the pain pteaus, and Eli attempts to refocus. The sensible choice of pns is to secure more food, find something soft to sleep on, or even just source a bnket. But realistically, there’s only one thing on his mind: Arlo.

  Suddenly, he knows exactly where he’s going.

  Staring up at the looming building, Eli’s confidence in his pn begins to waver. The giant “Police Station” sign instils something almost akin to fear in his bones. This was the pce he could’ve ended up twelve years ago. This was the pce that would’ve locked him away forever. This was hell. But if the precinct was hell, then - much to his te family’s disgust - he’d crawl through it for the sole purpose of courting the devil. The devil in question is still working, though, and the gates of hell have some very scary officers standing by them, so Eli opts to politely wait outside for the devil to come out for his lunch break instead. Perching uncomfortably on the edge of a crooked, rusty post, he finds himself absent-mindedly fixing his hair and pulling on the hem of his shirt, attempting to smooth the wrinkles. Perfectionism about his appearance is a foreign experience to him; he typically oozes confidence, but now he suddenly finds himself faced with a very different emotion: anxiety. His eyebrows furrow as questions he’s never asked himself before start swimming through his head. What if the only reason Arlo continued to talk to him was because he pitied him? What if Arlo found him unattractive? What if Arlo thought he was insane? He swallows the lump in his throat and decides that anxiety is definitely his least favourite emotion. No thank you, never doing that one again.

  Almost one hundred and thirty minutes of excruciating pain ter, Eli’s eyes start to droop, his body once again submitting to the ck of stored energy. Surprisingly, the officers outside of the station had paid him no attention - or if they had, they hadn’t done anything about his incessant loitering. All the better for him. The sun beats harshly on Eli’s face, and he regrets missing the opportunity to perform a sunscreen heist on the few shops he passed on his journey. He digs around in his pockets and produces a scratched-up pair of sungsses, flipping them open and pcing them on his nose one-handedly in one smooth movement. The scratches make it difficult to see clearly, and Eli scrunches his nose in displeasure - he’d have to obtain some new ones from somewhere. Or someone. He begins scanning the people passing him on the street, mentally cataloguing anyone he sees with sungsses hanging off the strap of their bag or pced precariously in their back pocket, but his train of thought is interrupted by two chirpy voices chattering behind him. One familiar, the other not so much.

  “I can’t believe you and Torres haven’t killed each other yet.” A female voice echoes melodically in the car park. “I had bets on you being the third dead body found this month.”

  “Gee, thanks, Soph,” Arlo responds, ughing. “I think we’re both just desperate to get to the bottom of this thing.” “I still don’t think there’s anything to get to the bottom of.”

  “You honestly still think they’re suicides?”

  “Yes, Arlo, I honestly do. You haven’t lived here for that long, you don’t know how this town works. I will eat my entire arm before you convince me that there’s a murderer here.”

  There’s a pause. “Wanna bet on it?”

  “I have enough existing bets involving you already.” The woman chortles, teasing.

  “More than me winding up dead?” Arlo replies in amused disbelief.

  “Oh, absolutely. Jen and I have a wager on how long it takes for you two to sleep together. I’ve never felt so much tension in a break room before!”

  Eli can’t tell which is worse to hear: that Arlo’s looking into the murders, his murders, or that there’s a possibility of him sleeping with somebody else. The voices grow closer, and he wonders who the woman Arlo seems so friendly with is. He knew about Torres from the beginning - or as he prefers to call him: Detective Loud-Mouth - but Arlo didn’t mention any friends. Eli doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought, though - moments ter, the detective and the woman walk straight past him, close enough that the breeze from their stride tickles Eli’s arm and makes his heart skip. With their backs now turned toward him, it’s clear both detectives were in too deep a conversation to notice his presence, so he speaks.

  “Beautiful day, detective.” Eli watches intently through scratched lenses as Arlo’s body freezes for a mere second, and his head whips around to face him. Taking advantage of the cover of tinted sungsses, he stares unapologetically at the detective’s face, refreshing his memory of all the tiny details he had spotted that first day in the tea shop. The caught-off-guard expression on Arlo’s face fades, being quickly repced by the smallest of smiles. It’s not he who speaks first, though.

  “Who’s this?” The woman’s eyes dart between Eli and Arlo somewhat suspiciously. After a moment, her mouth twitches up at the corners, and she shoots Arlo a look that says, “Is this the homeless guy you were talking about?”

  Arlo finally drags his eyes away from Eli and acknowledges the woman. “Uh- Sophie, this is Eli. Eli, this is Detective Sophie Lake.” He awkwardly gestures between them with his hands as he speaks.

  “Lovely to meet you, Detective Sophie Lake.” Eli turns his head toward Sophie as he addresses her, but unbeknownst to the two detectives, his eyes are still firmly pnted on Arlo’s freckles.

  “Nice to meet you too, Eli…?” Sophie trails off, silently asking for a surname. Eli’s eyes finally move across as he opens his mouth to correct her, but he’s interrupted.

  “Just Eli,” Arlo interjects.

  From the outside, it isn’t a huge deal, but upon hearing Arlo utter the very same words that were about to come out of his mouth, Eli’s heart swells.

  “No surname? Running from the w?” Sophie’s smile dulls a little as she looks piercingly at Eli with narrowed eyes and a thousand questions piling up in her head. She doesn’t ask any, though. Instead, she turns away from the peculiar man and back toward Arlo. “Coming?”

  Arlo seems taken aback by the query as if he’s forgotten why he left the precinct in the first pce. “Oh, uh…” He looks between Sophie and Eli awkwardly.

  “I was actually hoping,” Eli starts, interrupting Arlo’s anxious train of thought, “that I could steal Arlo away for lunch?” The question is directed toward Arlo, but it’s Sophie who responds.

  “I’m afraid Detective Maxwell doesn’t have time for that. I’m sure you can imagine he’s very busy.” She grasps Arlo’s arm and guides him away, leaving Eli to quell the rising irritation coursing through his bloodstream.

  He removes his sungsses and watches as they walk away from him, Sophie leading with confident strides and Arlo tailing, muttering something to her. They stop a little way down the pavement. Out of earshot, Eli can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but judging by their expressions, he’s pretty sure it’s about him. Suddenly, Arlo turns on his heel and heads straight back toward Eli as Sophie’s arms fly up in exasperation.

  “Sorry about that,” Arlo mutters as he comes to a halt in front of Eli and scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “So… lunch?”

  Eli beams and hops off the rusty post, wincing at the sudden movement that sends shockwaves through his feet up to his arm. He tries to correct his face as fast as possible, but the look of pain doesn’t go unnoticed by the detective.

  “Are you in pain? What’s wrong?” Arlo draws closer to Eli with an air of urgency. His eyes scan the entirety of the man’s body, trying to locate an injury.

  Eli shifts his weight, trying to act casual. “It’s nothing.”

  Arlo raises an eyebrow sceptically. “Don’t lie to me. You flinched like someone stabbed you. Let me see.”

  The detective’s eyes linger on Eli’s right arm that’s held too stiffly against his body. Hesitant, he reaches out to touch it, noticing his breath silently hitch as electricity pools in his fingertips. Eli flinches as if Arlo’s skin is two hundred degrees, but doesn’t move back. The air between them is quiet, unmoving. A familiar sensation settles in Eli’s head - the world goes mute, and yet, not in the way he’s used to. The sensation dissipates just as quickly as it had manifested when the detective removes his hand.

  “We need to get that looked at.” Arlo’s voice is low, concerned.

  Colour drains from Eli’s face at the suggestion, and noise returns to the world. Panic begins to creep in. “No, it’s fine.”

  “It’s broken.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “How did it happen?” Arlo searches Eli’s eyes for the answer, knowing it isn’t going to escape from his lips.

  “Lion attack,” Eli responds with a goofy grin, the colour slowly returning to his face.

  Something flickers in Arlo’s expression - a tinge of amusement amidst his general air of concern. He briefly considers whether continuously caring about this compellingly odd man in front of him is futile. Whether or not he would ever get a straight answer out of him. Eli being so forthcoming with his childhood trauma, but not with where he slept or what he did made little sense in the detective's brain. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Perhaps he was hiding something. Perhaps it was simply none of Arlo’s business.

  “Arlo?” Eli says, gently.

  Arlo’s eyes widen in the realisation that he’s been staring. With flushed cheeks, he ogles at the ground and clears his throat. “Right, so we need to-”

  “I’m not going to a hospital,” Eli cuts in, his voice soft but resolute.

  “-patch you up.” Their eyes meet again as their words csh. “I have a first aid kit and enough training to not make it worse.”

  Relief washes over Eli, and he lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

  “Wait here,” Arlo says, pcing a hand on Eli’s uninjured arm, sending tiny electric shocks throughout both their bodies. “Let me go and get my bag. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Six minutes ter, Arlo re-emerges from the precinct with his brown leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

  “Come on then,” Arlo calls from a few feet away.

  Eli does a little skip to catch up with the other man a little ways ahead of him and then falls into stride easily at his side.

  “Where are we going?” Eli asks, deliberately walking close enough to Arlo to feel his body heat.

  The detective replies simply, a genuine smile on his face. “Lunch.”

  Their knees touch underneath the table as Arlo carefully wraps Eli’s broken arm in a length of bandage. Pain spikes with every move, but the sensation is diluted by the delight Eli feels at where he’s sitting. It can’t have been a coincidence, Arlo choosing this pce in particur; they had passed so many other pces on the journey. But as, here they sat, in the very tea shop where they had met. Arlo’s eyes stay fixated on the arm he’s tending to, and Eli’s eyes stay fixated on Arlo.

  “You’re good at this,” Eli says eventually, almost in a whisper.

  Arlo shrugs. “You pick things up. Fieldwork teaches you a lot.” His eyes momentarily flicker up to Eli’s, and then across the table to an untouched ham and cheese sandwich. “Eat.”

  Obediently, Eli picks up the sandwich with his good arm and takes a bite. It’s the first real thing he’s had to eat in days, and his body immediately thanks him for it by radiating warmth from his stomach to his extremities. By the time the sandwich is gone, Arlo’s securing the final edge of the bandage.

  He leans back in his chair, exhaling. “That should hold. I’ll make a sling for you, but you need to actually see someone soon. A real doctor.”

  Eli’s face tightens, and Arlo adds, “Not today. But soon.” He pces a gentle hand on Eli’s knee and leans forward ever so slightly. “Please?”

  With that simple touch, the world around Eli slows. Arlo’s hand burns a memory into his leg, much like the handprint he can still feel on his forearm. He nods and decides there and then that he’d happily do pretty much whatever the detective asks of him, even if it means doing the one thing he’s afraid of.

  Removing his hand and checking his watch, Arlo sighs. “My lunch break is almost over. I have to go back to work in a minute.” He pauses for a beat, then continues. “Where are you sleeping?” He asks, concern in his eyes.

  Eli’s mind flickers back to the downstairs apartment he’d situated himself in and considers instead to make up a fantastical story about a castle, maybe a mansion, but decides against it. “I’m sort of between pces right now.”

  Silence hangs between them as Arlo seems to ponder intently over something. “You’re sleeping with me tonight.” He decres, catching his faux pas too te. “Not- Uh- Not sleeping with me. I mean, you’re coming home with me. You’re sleeping- spending the night at my ft so that you don’t get any more injured and I don’t have to worry.” After a beat, he adds, “On the sofa.”

  Watching Arlo get redder in the face and overly flustered puts a grin on Eli’s face as he watches the detective dig himself a hole. Arlo quickly rises from his chair, removing his bag from the back of it and slinging it over his shoulder.

  Noticing Eli hasn’t responded, he adds, “If you want to.”

  This jolts Eli out of whatever daydream he was lost in. “Happily,” he says simply, beaming. “I’ll meet you outside your building ter on?”

  After a short nod and a small smile, Arlo leaves the tea shop, fidgeting with the familiar spot at the back of his hair. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, he allows the outside air to fill his lungs and implores his mind not to jump to worst-case scenarios. He begins the short walk back to the precinct, filled with both anxiety and excitement. Three days ago, if faced with the same predicament, Arlo probably wouldn’t have even considered offering his sofa. But the simple fact remained and echoed in his mind: those three days without knowing whether or not Eli was safe, alive even, were torture. The moment his phone vibrated with Eli’s first message st night brought forth an immense and confusing waterfall of emotions. On one hand: relief. Relief that the man he had admittedly become so enthralled with was safe. Relief that he could finally stop pacing the length of his living room, worrying. Relief that Eli missed him, too. On the other hand, though, that same relief brought a flurry of conflict. These feelings, whatever they might be, weren’t familiar. But they were oddly comfortable.

  Arlo’s so deep in thought that he almost walks straight past the police station, but he’s abruptly stopped by a figure blocking his path. Dragging his eyes away from the pavement, he looks up into the eyes of a very irritated police officer.

  “You’re an idiot, Arlo.” Sophie’s arms are crossed over her chest, and she’s tapping a foot impatiently. “That weirdo could get you killed.”

  Arlo inwardly rolls his eyes and walks past, feeling her tail him closely. “Calm down, Sophie, he’s a friend.” “A friend? A couple of days ago, he was just some random homeless guy you were helping out, which I already found absurd, by the way. Why you would give him your address is beyond me. But now you’re having lunch dates with him?” Her voice seems to get louder with every word.

  “Firstly, it wasn’t a date. It was lunch. Secondly, you’re blowing this way out of proportion, he’s harmless!”

  Sophie grips Arlo’s shoulder from behind and stops him in his tracks. “How do you know he’s not the one murdering these people?”

  Arlo scoffs, “Oh, so now you believe they’re murders?” He shrugs Sophie’s hand off. “Why are you so insistent about this?”

  She sighs, and her expression softens. “I just have a feeling he’s trouble, and my instinct is rarely wrong.”

  “You don’t even know him.” “And you do? You met him no more than a week ago, and since then, you’ve given him your number, invited him home twice, and gone out on a lunch date with him, and those are only the things I know about! No one, not even the nicest person in the world would go that far for some random homeless guy who just got a little lost.” At this point, Arlo was walking away again, with Sophie in tow. “You know what that tells me, Arlo? It tells me either he’s a dangerous creep that you keep letting manipute you, or you have some weird saviour-complex-type crush on him and can’t leave well enough alone!”

  Arlo’s jaw tightens. “Are you done?”

  Sophie thinks for a second, piercing the back of Arlo’s head with a steely gaze. “Tell me his st name.”

  Arlo stops, head tipped upwards with his eyes squeezed shut in exasperation. He turns on his heel to face Sophie. “Why do you need to know?”

  “I want to look him up in the system. I don’t feel good about him.”

  “You saw him for five seconds.”

  “That was all I needed.”

  “Don’t you think I would’ve picked up on something if he was bad news?”

  “Maybe you’re not as good a detective as you think.”

  Ouch. That hurt. Arlo grits his teeth, frustrated. He knows Sophie won’t let it go any time soon.

  “Elijah Asher.” He spits, “Knock yourself out.”

  Wanting to be a fair distance away from his persistent coworker, Arlo dumps his bag on his desk and slinks off to the bathroom. It was only a matter of time before Sophie looked Eli up in the system and realised there was no trace of him. He couldn’t tell her the things Eli had told him about his past, though. They were entirely too personal. He spshes his face with icy water and braces against the sink, deep in thought. The words ‘weird saviour-complex-type crush’ keep swimming around and around in his mind. Is that what this feeling is? A crush? It would certainly expin the dream. Perhaps he was being stupid after all. Maybe Eli would strangle Arlo to death in his sleep tonight. Maybe he’ll wake up and his TV will be gone. Was it worth the risk?

  Arlo’s barely been sitting for more than a few seconds before a piece of paper is aggressively smmed on the desk in front of him.

  “He’s a witness?!” Sophie whisper-yells, catching Arlo off guard.

  “Was,” Arlo states defensively.

  He takes a closer look at the paper scrunched beneath her hand. It’s as he suspects: his own witness account is still the only information on Elijah Asher in the entire system.

  “You are in over your head.” Sophie shakes her head disapprovingly. “When this goes downhill, and it will, you just remember I told you so.”

  Refusing to meet her eyes, Arlo doesn’t respond. He makes a throat-clearing sound, puts his head down, and begins to work on a pile of dishevelled paperwork, purposefully ignoring Sophie’s presence. It’s a few minutes before she retreats to her desk, and Arlo can let go of the breath he had been silently holding. He wishes he could tell her he understands her point of view, but the truth is, he simply doesn’t want to understand it. Somehow, for some reason, he’d decided that Eli was worth the risk.

  The work day ends far ter than anyone in the precinct pns for, with the st of the detectives, including Arlo, trickling out at nearly 9pm. To her credit, Sophie does soften her attitude over the hours and offers Arlo a ride home, but he declines politely. He has a feeling that if she sees Eli waiting outside for him, she’d have a few things to say about it. Instead, he waits anxiously on the pavement for a cab to come and pick him up. It’s already pitch bck outside, and it’s starting to spit. He can only hope that Eli hasn’t been waiting for him, broken-boned and soggy, all night.

  The bck cab screeches to a halt in front of Arlo, almost camoufging into the road. The driver smells like smoke, and Arlo fights the urge to scrunch his nose. As they’re travelling, he periodically checks his phone. No notifications. No text, no call, nothing. He hopes that Eli hasn’t forgotten about the invitation, or worse, decided a park bench was a better choice than his company. No, that was silly, wasn’t it? Pulling up to the building and seeing no one waiting outside makes him think otherwise. He pays the driver with a quick tap of his phone and hops out of the taxi, looking up and down the street for Eli. His heart sinks a little when there’s no sign of him.

  Arlo punches the door code into the keypad half-heartedly. The buzz confirms his access, and he shoves through the door, shoulder first. The sight that greets him causes a fluttery sort of feeling in his stomach. There, leaning against a wall, asleep, was Eli. Broken-boned? Yes. Soggy? A little. Waiting? Evidently. Every few seconds, he lets out a quiet little snore that Arlo can’t help but find endearing. Awake, Eli was a force, a whirlwind. Pure confidence and charm radiated from him, like a glimmering aura of light. Asleep, though, he was small, fragile. As if he would shatter when touched or handled too roughly. When he isn’t controlling it, his expression is sad, maybe even a little afraid. He reminds Arlo of a stray puppy, begging for somebody to take him in, take care of him, and love him unconditionally. Eli had told him before in fewer words that that’s not something he’s ever known: unconditional love. It’s fleeting, the thought, but for a moment Arlo’s mind wanders back to that damn dream. Is that what a crush feels like? Is that love? Is this insane to think about? Definitely. Shut up, Arlo.

  Hanging his satchel on the end of the bannister, Arlo walks over to Eli and crouches beside him. He pces a hand on Eli’s good arm, squeezing gently to try and stir him awake. When that doesn’t work, he runs his hand down his arm to find his hand. His skin buzzes as his finger traces over each of Eli’s knuckles. His eyes stay fixated on the sleeping man’s face, looking for any sign of consciousness. Arlo squeezes Eli’s hand, softly calling his name. Eli’s snoring begins to change rhythm, getting quieter with every squeeze of the hand. After a while, Arlo’s hand is squeezed back, catching him off guard and making him pull his suddenly very sweaty palm away. Eli opens one eye at a time, adjusting to the harsh lighting in the building lobby. His eyes seem to move in slow motion, but once they find the detective, they spring to life. A smile spreads across Eli’s face, and he carefully readjusts his positioning, trying not to wave his broken arm around too much.

  “Arlo.” It’s meant as a greeting, but the way Eli sleepily slurs his name with an enchanting smile on his face makes Arlo’s heart rate increase.

  “Hi,” Arlo whispers, “I thought you’d decided not to come.”

  “And pass up an evening with my favourite detective? Never.”

  Warmth floods Arlo’s face as they share small smiles and gnces. “Come on, we need to get you somewhere comfortable.” He rises swiftly to his feet and holds out a hand for Eli. “Here.”

  Taking Arlo’s hand, Eli unsteadily rises to his feet, his broken arm and sleepy head throwing his bance off. Noticing he isn’t quite stable, Arlo instinctively puts an arm around Eli, feeling his body momentarily tense under his touch.

  Getting upstairs is no easy feat. The staircase is narrow, and every time Arlo goes to remove his arm from where it’s resting on Eli’s middle back, Eli conveniently gets a little bit wobbly and requires Arlo’s support again. Eventually, though, they make it to the apartment. The door swings open, and Arlo chucks his keys into the bowl on the kitchen isnd whilst he guides Eli to the sofa. The feeling is odd, both of them being in this room again. It was barely a week ago that they both sat on this sofa, talking about Eli’s childhood and ughing over coffee, and yet, it felt longer. Arlo looks Eli up and down, noting how positively damp he is, and wonders just how long he was stuck outside in the rain. Although that brings up another very good question:

  “How did you get into the building?” Arlo didn’t consider it when he first saw Eli asleep in the lobby, but it was curious that he somehow had the door code.

  “Hm?” Eli looks confused for a moment, as if he’s just been asked a nonsensical question, but quickly wipes the expression from his face. “Oh. I followed somebody in.”

  It’s a simple enough expnation, so Arlo doesn’t probe further. Instead, he nods toward Eli’s arm. “How does that feel?”

  “It’s painful, but not completely unbearable.” He answers simply.

  “You’re the only person I know who can break their arm and act like it’s nothing, you know that?” Arlo shakes his head and chuckles in disbelief. Crouching beside Eli, he continues, “Let me check it’s still bound properly.”

  They don’t speak a word to each other as Arlo carefully tends to Eli’s arm. The bandages are a bit damp, but the sling thankfully took the brunt of the rain. Carefully removing it, Arlo leans back on his heels and examines the man in front of him.

  “This is the second time you’ve been dripping wet in my living room.”

  Eli raises his eyebrows, amused. “I’m hardly dripping wet - I’m a tiny bit damp.”

  “You’re damp enough to squelch when you move,” Arlo responds, mirroring Eli’s expression. “I’ll go find you something to sleep in.” On his way to the bedroom, he calls over his shoulder, “Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice you stole my socks!”

  By the time 11pm rolls around, the sofa’s piled high with spare bnkets and pillows, the coffee and tea are half drunk, and Eli’s wearing Arlo’s old Christmas jumper from 2020.

  “I’d offer you a proper meal, but I have jack-shit in the fridge.” Arlo starts sheepishly. “We can order take-out, or I have cereal?” Saying it out loud, it hits him how pathetic that sounds.

  Eli’s grinning, though. “Who would I be to refuse cereal for dinner?”

  A smile breaks out on Arlo’s face as he busies himself with bowls and spoons. Behind him, he can hear Eli rise from the sofa and make his way across the living room, pausing every so often. He peers over his shoulder and watches Eli run a finger over an old pile of childhood board games Arlo had piled up and neglected to revisit since he moved in. Arlo carries the two bowls of cereal over to the coffee table and pces them down. Eli doesn’t move - he seems to be pondering something intently.

  “I’ve had those since I was a child,” Arlo answers the unspoken question.

  “They’re dusty. You don’t py them any more?” Eli asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

  “It’s a little difficult to py a board game by yourself.” Arlo chuckles. “Since I moved away from my sister, they’re useless.”

  Eli finally turns away from the pile and faces Arlo, eyebrow raised. “There’s no Cluedo board here.” He looks confused. “You said it was your favourite.”

  Ignoring the blush that just spread to his ears due to hearing Eli so casually remember his favourite board game, Arlo expins, “I’ve never actually owned it, I used to py with a friend as a kid.”

  Eli nods and turns back around to look at the games. “So, which is your favourite out of these?”

  “Uh, probably Scrabble, I suppose.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Eli reaches up and grabs the Scrabble box, dispersing the dust on the top of the box with one sharp blow. Arlo realises he made a mistake. He should’ve said another game, any other game. Seeing Eli holding that Scrabble box reminds him far too much of that dream his mind keeps drifting back to. Before Arlo can think of a reason not to py, Eli pces the box on the table and removes the lid. Fshbacks of fingertips and soft touches flood Arlo’s mind as he chews hard on his bottom lip, trying to think about anything else. He catches himself staring at Eli’s hands as he skillfully sets up the board and pces seven letter tiles onto each small pstic holder, ensuring he does Arlo’s backwards so he doesn’t see them. Time distorts, and everything feels sort of fuzzy until Eli speaks.

  “Arlo?”

  Arlo’s eyes shoot upwards and his eyes widen as he realises that Eli’s been speaking for a while. “Oh, uh, sorry.” His voice wobbles as he shifts his weight and sits on the floor across from Eli.

  Eli fshes Arlo a warm smile, and Arlo returns it, pushing a bowl of cereal toward him, which he readily takes a spoonful of.

  “Right.” He excims, “Let’s see…”

  He pores over his tiles as Arlo studies his face. Had Eli been looking at the man across from him, he probably would’ve picked up on the incredibly unsubtle expression of yearning almost immediately, but thankfully, he seems fully engrossed in the game. Confusion whirls in Arlo’s stomach at breakneck speed. He’s never before had a physical reaction to another person quite as dramatic as this one. As Eli pces tiles slowly and precisely on the board, Arlo watches each movement like it’s a spell being cast. The deliberate press of fingers to smooth wood, the way his knuckles flex, the soft click of tile meeting board - no motion went unnoticed. His eyes flick to Eli’s throat as he swallows, his own mouth suddenly dry, and he’s hit with the memory of dreamt lips hovering just above his own.

  Eli’s voice cuts through the haze, and it sms into Arlo’s ribcage like a freight train.

  “Four points,” Eli says, gncing up with a glint in his eye. “I’ve admittedly done worse.”

  Arlo breathes out a ugh, but it catches at the end. He stares at the board, sees the word ‘REAL’, and has to bite the inside of his cheek. Was that a coincidence? It had to be. Of course it was. Eli’s a lot of things, but he isn’t a bloody mind-reader. How was he to know that that’s the exact word he pyed in a dream? Arlo’s fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for his own tray. He swallows thickly and forces himself to focus on letters, on rules, on anything other than the feeling that every cell in his body is tuned to Eli like he’s some kind of living, breathing frequency Arlo can’t turn off. Thankfully, Eli doesn’t seem to notice the spiral Arlo’s found himself in, or that the detective’s breathing has only gotten heavier since they sat down to py, or maybe he does. Maybe that smirk that tugs on the edge of his lips as he watches Arlo flounder over a simple four-letter word isn’t as innocent as it looks.

  Despite the distractions, Arlo wins the game. By the time they say their goodnights, Arlo’s ears are fming red. Leaving Eli to get comfortable on the sofa, Arlo shuts his bedroom door with a soft click. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to the wood, willing the thoughts in his head to shut up. But they don’t. Of course they don’t.

  That dream. That dream. It’s been haunting him for days, refusing to cease no matter how many cold showers he took. And tonight certainly didn’t help. Watching Eli’s fingers move over letter tiles with maddening precision, catching glimpses of his mouth curling into smug little grins, hearing that accent wrap around words like velvet-

  Arlo exhales sharply through his nose and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

  This shouldn’t be happening. He doesn’t normally feel like this. Not over someone he’s known for what, days? And yet, an hour ago Eli had leaned over to grab the cereal, and Arlo had genuinely forgotten how to breathe. Just a stupid, casual reach, and it had short-circuited something in his brain. That shouldn’t be possible.

  He peels himself away from the door with a groan and throws himself onto the bed, face-first into the pillow. The silence of the room should be calming, but it’s so loud.

  There’s only one person he can talk to about any of this. He pulls his phone from his pocket and hits the green button on Cara’s contact. It rings once. Twice. Three times. Arlo wouldn’t bme her for not picking up, it was 1am after all. There’s a grunt on the other end of the phone.

  “It’s 1am, you psychopath, what are you doing?!” Pausing to compose herself, Cara quickly adds, “Are you okay?”

  Arlo hesitates. Was he okay?

  “Dude? Hello? Arlo?” Her voice is ced with concern as she prods for a response.

  Arlo swallows and replies simply.

  “I think I have a crush.”