CHAPTER 8

  “Okay, let me see if I’ve got this right...”

  Arlo sits at the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, on the brink of a self-realisation fueled panic attack. He had just spent twenty minutes reying the st week of Eli-reted events to Cara, and he was beginning to feel very exposed.

  “You had a sex dream about the guy- sorry, emotionally intense dream with suggestive undertones-” she amends with dramatic finger quotes he can somehow hear through the phone, “and now that you’ve pyed Scrabble with him in real life, you’ve realised you’ve got a giant, throbbing-”

  “Cara, please, for the love of God-”

  “-crush,” she finishes sweetly. “A throbbing crush. What did you think I was going to say?”

  He groans, falling back onto the mattress and draping a forearm over his face. “I’m going to vomit. I’m actually going to die.”

  “Nooo,” Cara hums, amused. “You’re just feeling things. Welcome to the chaos realm, brother mine.” “I don’t do chaos realms.”

  “You’re in one.”

  “I want out.”

  “Not how it works!” she chirps. “Sorry, rules are rules.”

  Arlo exhales like the world is ending. “I haven’t had a crush like this since - ever, maybe? It’s not supposed to happen like this! It’s supposed to be slow. It’s supposed to make sense. He’s not even trying to be… seductive or anything.” He cringes just trying to get the words out.

  Cara snorts. “And yet you are still seduced. That’s how you know it’s real. The best ones sneak up on you like emotional ninjas.” There’s a long silence before she adds, “yeah, I don’t get it either.”

  “I hate it here.”

  “I know, baby bro-”

  “We’re the same age-”

  “But also, I’m proud of you.”

  Arlo pauses. “For what? Falling apart?”

  “For letting yourself want something. Someone, even.” Her voice softens and loses some of the performative fir. “That’s terrifying, Arlo. And you’re still here.”

  He swallows the lump in his throat, suddenly way too full of emotion. “...Thanks.”

  “Also, just so you know,” she adds, already winding the tension back down, “next time you call me after midnight to tell me about a Scrabble-induced sexual crisis, I’ll kill you.”

  He lets out a half-ugh, half-sigh. “Good luck. You live in a different city.”

  “Irrelevant. Love you.”

  The call cuts off with a click and Arlo ys still, staring at the ceiling and going over everything in his brain for the thirtieth time. There’s something oddly electrifying about the fact Eli is a mere door away. The sudden realisation that he could have very easily overheard the entire phone call floods Arlo with dread as he sits bolt upright. He lowers his breathing, trying to listen for any sign of snoring, but hears nothing.

  Checking would be a terrible idea. What if Eli is awake? What if he’s heard everything?

  …What if he’s gone?

  Arlo’s pulse spikes. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hands braced on the edge. For a few seconds, he just sits there, frozen by his own overthinking. Then he’s up - bare feet silent against the floor, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears.

  The door creaks open slower than he means it to. Moonlight seeps through the blinds and onto the living room floor, catching on the edges of the abandoned Scrabble board and the empty bowls on the coffee table. Eli’s form is bundled on the sofa underneath the bnkets Arlo had offered earlier, with his back to Arlo. He looks peaceful. Arlo takes a hesitant step closer, watching for any shift in breath, any twitch of muscle. But Eli doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. Just the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his back beneath the bnket.

  Arlo lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He lingers for a few seconds longer, allowing himself the tiniest indulgence of just looking without being seen doing so. Eli certainly doesn’t look like someone who overheard a panicked, emotionally compromising te-night phone call.

  Convinced - or at least half-convinced - Arlo turns to retreat. But he missed the subtle curve of Eli’s lips as they twitch into the faintest smile, barely there, gone in a blink.

  Eyes still closed. Breath still steady.

  But very much awake.

  When Arlo wakes, the ft feels too quiet - until he hears the soft ctter of dishes and the sound of humming, off-key and cheerful, coming from the kitchen. He blinks, takes a second to remember what pnet he’s on, and then gets up, his hair a mess and his heartbeat doing something far too dramatic for this early in the morning. He runs a hand through his disaster of a bedhead before stepping out into the living room.

  Eli’s at the sink, one arm in the bubbles, broken arm close to his chest, humming the same tune he was whistling a few days prior as he rinses out the cereal bowls from the night before. There’s a tea towel slung over his shoulder, his hair slightly frizzier on one side from the pillow, and he looks as if it’s a role he’s fulfilled his entire life.

  He turns when he hears Arlo, eyes lighting up. “Good morning, detective.”

  Arlo clears his throat, suddenly aware he’d been staring. “Morning.” He replies, voice cracking ever so slightly.

  “You make the weirdest sounds when you sleep, you know that?”

  Arlo freezes mid-step. “I- what?”

  Eli grins. “Like, kind of endearing? Sort of like a whale call and a hiccup had a baby.”

  “I’m never sleeping again.”

  Eli chuckles and turns back to the dishes. “I thought about making breakfast,” he says, a bit louder over the running tap. “But you weren’t kidding about not having any food. Your kitchen’s like an apocalypse zone.” He gestures dramatically to the empty fridge. “This is a cry for help.”

  Arlo ughs, soft and unexpected. “I should probably go grocery shopping.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “Thank you for washing up, I’m kind of impressed you’re managing one-handed.”

  Eli finishes the st bowl, shuts off the water, and dries his arm on the tea towel. “Felt like I should do something,” he says simply, turning to face him.

  Arlo doesn’t know what to do with the warmth in that statement, or with the fact that Eli is standing barefoot in his kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  He shifts and crosses his arms. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to.”

  There’s a quiet moment between them - comfortable on Eli’s side, wildly chaotic on Arlo’s. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. He wants to say something casual. Light. Breezy.

  What comes out is: “Do you… want to get dinner? Later? …With me?”

  He instantly regrets the phrasing. His face feels like it’s on fire. He tries to backtrack. “I just mean- since there’s no food, and I was gonna have to go out anyway, and-”

  “Dinner dinner?” Eli interrupts, taking a chance and stepping forward just slightly, head tilted. “Or like, ‘I owe you for doing my dishes’ dinner?”

  Arlo fumbles. “More like a… ‘maybe I like spending time with you, please don’t make me expin further’ kind of dinner.”

  Eli’s grin grows, wide and bright. “Yes. I would love to.”

  Their eyes meet and Arlo smiles, the anxiety in his stomach slowly dissipating into warmth.

  Eli leans his good arm on the counter and looks him over slowly. “Not that the rumpled pyjamas and tragic bedhead isn’t doing it for me, but you might want to freshen up before work.”

  Arlo blinks. “You’re awful.”

  “And yet, you invited me to dinner.” Eli winks.

  And Arlo doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought echoes like a drumbeat in his chest: Yeah. I did.

  By the time Arlo’s pulled on clean clothes and shrugged on his coat, Eli’s already crouched by the front door, brows drawn in intense concentration. His broken arm is tucked awkwardly against his chest, and his good hand is struggling to do up the ces on his battered trainers.

  “Not as good at ces as you are at dishes, then?” Arlo teases, amused.

  “I had to have a fw somehow.” Eli looks up, sheepish. “Help?”

  Arlo moves closer, dropping his satchel on the sofa in the process, and crouches in front of him without a word, gently nudging Eli’s foot toward him. Their knees nearly touch, and the moment stretches long and quiet as Arlo starts winding the ces around each other. Eli watches him - not speaking, not moving - just watching with something unreadable in his expression. Arlo finishes the bow with a quick, neat tug. He looks up, realising too te how close they are to one another, and his breath hitches.

  “Thanks.” Eli says eventually, his voice soft.

  Arlo nods once, and rises to his feet far too quickly. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ll walk you,” Eli replies, straightening up.

  Arlo blinks. “To the station?”

  “Why not? It’s a nice morning. I like the sun. You have legs. Seems like a good pn.”

  Arlo huffs a ugh, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. The idea of just deciding to do something without considering all the factors seems outndish and unfamiliar. “It’s a bit far.”

  Eli shrugs, “Time will fly. Let me steal a few more minutes of your time before you go and save the world.”

  “You’re severely overestimating my prowess as a detective.” Arlo chuckles, ogling the floor, flushed.

  Something as simple as being escorted to work shouldn’t feel like a big deal. But it does.

  They leave the ft and start down the street side by side, the quiet town slowly coming to life around them. A few cars pass. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The sun hangs low but promising in the sky.

  They stop at a tiny bakery, and Eli hesitates near the counter, fingers twitching toward his back pocket like muscle memory. Arlo steps up before he can say anything, pulling a tenner from his wallet and ordering for them both.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Eli murmurs as they step outside with pastries in hand.

  Arlo shrugs. “It’s just a croissant.”

  Eli gnces sideways at him, his expression unreadable for a second - then a warm smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Careful. You’re gonna make me feel spoiled.”

  “You’d survive.”

  They fall into rhythm again, their footsteps soft on the cobbled pavement. Arlo’s trying to focus on the pastry, the walk, the sky - but his brain’s trailing back to Eli beside him and how easily he fits into his morning, how right it feels in a way that borders on terrifying.

  “So,” Eli says after a moment, “what’s on the agenda for today? Where’s the next crime you’re off to solve?”

  Arlo raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m running straight to a crime scene?”

  “You’ve got that look,” Eli replies, their shoulders brushing. “All detective-y. Like you’re already trying to solve something in your head.” After a short pause, he adds, “Or you’re trying to figure out your next Scrabble move. They’re very simir looks.”

  Arlo gives a small ugh. “I wasn’t aware I had such a look.”

  “Your eyebrows do this furrow-y thing. It’s cute.” He says it so casually, as if they’ve been paying each other such btant compliments for years.

  It makes Arlo’s brain glitch for a second, and he hopes Eli doesn’t notice the slight wobble in his voice. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be assigned to any new crime scenes in a while.”

  “How come?”

  Arlo hesitates, calcuting how much he can say. “Have you heard about the deaths in town recently?”

  Eli’s jaw tightens before he can stop it. His shoulders go rigid and he forces a casual shake of the head, praying it looks natural.

  “No,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “I haven’t.”

  The air feels heavier. He focuses on consciously easing his shoulders, willing the tension to bleed out of his posture. He hopes Arlo doesn’t notice the shift, or hears the sudden static in his silence.

  Arlo eborates, “A guy was found on the bottom of the canal, rocks in his pockets. And then a few days ter, a girl colpsed on the street completely randomly. My neighbour, actually.”

  Eli swallows down the lump forming in his throat.

  “They were both ruled suicides,” Arlo goes on, frowning, “but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more. I don’t want to believe there’s somebody out there killing people, but… they’re just too close together to be unreted.”

  He pauses long enough to take a bite of the croissant in his hand, and Eli keeps his eyes fixed ahead, heart drumming in his ears. There it was again: anxiety.

  “My neighbour - they’ve said she overdosed,” Arlo says. “But she was in the middle of the street, in work clothes, holding a tte. I don’t know a lot of people who would hit a coffee shop before ending their life in the middle of a random street.” His voice is quiet now, heavy with certainty. “She didn’t do that to herself. And don’t get me started on the canal guy-”

  It’s not until Arlo finally runs out of breath that he notices Eli’s no longer beside him. He turns and finds him a few steps back, his expression distant, eyes gssy, like he’s only half there. Arlo’s chest tightens with guilt. He slows until they’re walking side by side again, close enough to brush arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, nudging him gently. “I forget how desensitised I am to it all. That was a lot.”

  Eli gnces at him, his smile shaky but genuine. “It’s alright,” he says, quietly. But inside, his thoughts are spiralling.

  He hadn’t expected to hear about them like this - from him. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider what it would feel like to be walking next to the man investigating his crimes. The man who looks at him like he’s been done wrong by others, but never done wrong himself. The man who he knows, now more than ever, can’t find out.

  Not just because Eli’s afraid of getting caught. But because losing Arlo would hurt more than anything. He looks at Arlo’s face - earnest, caring, trusting - and knows, now more than ever before, that it’s worth it. Every lie. Every risk. He just has to keep it all from falling apart.

  By the time they reach the station, the conversation has shifted back to safer ground - half-hearted grumbles about paperwork, Eli making witty comments about people they pass, Arlo softening back into the rhythm of their walk. They’re both silently thankful for the ease of it all. They slow to a stop just outside of the station entrance.

  Eli rocks back on his heels. “Alright, detective,” he says, warmly, “time to go solve the mysteries of the universe.”

  Arlo hovers. “Thank you. For coming with me.”

  “Thank you for letting me,” Eli replies, his voice gentler now. “I liked it. The walk. Talking.”

  “Me too.”

  There’s a moment where it feels like they might say more, but instead, they’re interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle entering the adjacent car park. They both turn to look toward the source of the noise and see Sophie dismounting her bike and pulling her helmet off. She spots them both instantly. Her eyes widen for a moment, then narrow, her expression settling into one of steely disappointment. She walks past them both and into the station wordlessly, leaving tension thick in the air.

  “She doesn’t like me, does she?” Eli asks, already knowing the answer.

  Arlo considers politely lying, but decides there’s no point.

  “No,” he responds, “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh well,” Eli smiles softly, unphased. “She’s not the detective I’m interested in anyway.”

  For the hundredth time in the st twenty-four hours, Arlo’s face is afme.

  Eli continues, “I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Arlo says, fidgeting with his hands awkwardly. “Dinner.”

  Eli takes a small step forward, barely leaving a foot of space between them. He seems to consider something for a moment, and then reaches for Arlo’s hand.

  “Have a good day at work, Arlo.” Eli lifts Arlo’s hand to his lips and pces a gentle, chaste kiss on his knuckles.

  Then, without another word, he releases it - like it didn’t just set Arlo completely on fire - and turns, walking away with a lightness in his step like he hadn’t just committed emotional murder on a public street.

  Arlo doesn’t move. He can’t move.

  His brain is short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between ‘did that just happen?’ and ‘what the hell do I do with myself now?’. His hand is still hovering midair, warm where Eli’s lips had touched it, and every inch of him feels like it’s made of static. His heart is hammering, his ears are ringing, and somewhere deep inside his chest, something is blooming at an arming speed.

  This is fine. Everything is fine. Totally fine.

  He finally lowers his hand and inhales sharply, trying to blink the world back into focus. There is no way he’s going to survive dinner.

  ?

  Eli doesn't stop smiling until he’s three streets away. Not the casual smile he wears in public, not the charming one he uses to deflect, but the full, uncontrolble kind - like his face doesn’t know how to hold this much happiness. Arlo had asked him on a date. A real date. And the look on his face - flushed and startled and so soft after that kiss to the hand - Eli pys it over in his mind again and again like a precious reel of film, terrified it might fade if he stops. He knows he probably shouldn’t have done it. It was too much. Too romantic. Too telling. But he’d meant it. The moment was overwhelming; the warmth of Arlo’s skin, the brief contact, the way it felt so natural to take his hand like that. For a second - for a bright, impossible second - he let himself believe it would be okay. That this thing blossoming between them could grow in the light.

  But Arlo had to mention the deaths. And just like that, the warmth in Eli’s chest turns to ice. The canal. The girl. The investigation. Arlo isn’t just suspicious - he’s right. And he’s too close. The kind of close that could ruin everything.

  Eli ducks into a narrow alley and presses his back to the wall, breathing shallowly. His hands shake and he squeezes his eyes shut, pained. He can’t let it happen. He can’t let Arlo find out. Not just because of what it would mean for him, but because of what it would do to Arlo. What it would break in him. Eli couldn’t stand to see that. The only way forward is to redirect, muddy the water. Give the investigation somewhere else to go.

  A third body. A new death. One he can control.

  He feels nauseous at the thought. He’s never killed without purpose. Without rage. Without that blinding fury that screamed they deserve this. But this time, he’ll have to pick someone without that certainty. He doesn’t have time to sit around and wait for somebody to make a shitty comment, or do something intolerable. There’s every possibility he chooses someone good, someone innocent. He’ll never know the difference. His rules were what made it bearable. They kept him tethered to something vaguely resembling right. But this - this was a nightmare. He turns and presses his forehead to the brick wall, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one. To everyone. To himself. And maybe, someday, to Arlo.

  He doesn’t move for a long time. The nowhere-town hums faintly around him, yet still more alive than it had ever seemed - cars rolling by, someone ughing across the street - but it feels far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. Finally, he pushes himself off the wall and starts to walk. Not toward anywhere in particur. Just… looking. He knows he can’t be stupid about this. He needs someone alone. Someone vulnerable enough that it could look like a tragic accident. Someone whose death wouldn’t immediately scream murder. But every person he passes sharpens the guilt in his chest. An old man struggling with his shopping bags. No. A teenager bancing a box of pastries. No. A young woman in scrubs, clearly heading to a shift at the hospital. Definitely not. He keeps walking. His feet ache and his stomach twists. His mind buzzes with a frantic, nauseous energy.

  He rounds a corner into a quieter part of town, somewhere he immediately recognises as the pce he ran to after that first fateful night in the park. He spots the phone box he used to call Arlo all those nights ago, and his chest aches. The houses here sit farther apart, and the pavements are cracked and uneven, and there - leaning against a street sign, waiting for something - is a man about Eli’s age, tapping absently at his phone. Normal. Average. Harmless. Right next to a very dark alleyway. The man gnces up and offers a polite, friendly smile.

  Please, something inside Eli pleads. Not him.

  But the world tilts, and he knows it’s already too te. There are no cameras, no one around, it’s perfect. He needs a story to feed Arlo, a misdirection, and time is running out. The man shifts his weight, as if to begin walking away, and Eli acts. He surges forward, muttering a quick apology as he expertly swings one arm around the man’s neck, spinning him around in the process. With his other hand silencing him, he drags the man, struggling, into the darkness of the alley. The world hasn’t gone silent. It’s painfully, gringly loud. He can hear every breath, every cry, every plea. Did they all sound like this? Briefly, he wonders if he’d have ever started it if he had heard it. His heart pounds so hard it feels like his ribs might snap. His pulse, a roar in his ears. He forces the man into a seated position against the wall, pointedly avoiding looking into his wide, terrified eyes. One arm is still cmped around the man’s mouth, the other is digging around in his pockets, trying to find the small bottle of liquid. His knees dig into the man’s legs, pinning him in position. It’s not as funny as the man in the park. Not any more. He retrieves the vial with shaking fingers, and pops it open, his hands slippery with sweat.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

  He tips the man’s head back and, with a force that makes bile rise in his throat, he pours the clear, lethal liquid down his throat. He holds the man’s jaw shut with his shaking hand, forcing him to swallow.

  It feels like forever before the man stops convulsing and lies still. Silent. Dead.

  Eli kneels back, his hands slick and trembling, staring at what he’s done. The colour drains from his face and he feels as if he’s going to be sick. The world tilts, once again. The light seems too bright, the colours too sharp. His body feels wrong, disconnected, like he’s floating somewhere outside himself. Time fractures. Somewhere, faintly, he can hear the buzz of a bee near a bin, the low rumble of the cars a few streets over, the soft crinkling of the leaves tumbling down the gutter. The universe spins on, indifferent.

  Eli presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears from breaking loose. Hot, violent sobs rip through him, wracking his whole body until he curls into himself, forehead pressed against the pavement. The weight of what he’s done crushes him. Smothers him. This wasn’t righteous fury. This wasn’t protecting the innocent. This wasn’t justice.

  This was selfish. This was for love.

  And that makes it worse.

  He cries harder than he has in years - great, shuddering, broken sounds that scrape his throat raw. His breath hiccups uselessly against the thick grief strangling him from the inside.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve the way Arlo looked at him this morning like he was something good.

  After what feels like hours, he scrubs a trembling hand over his face, wipes away the tears, and moves with mechanical numbness. He takes the small bottle of poison and wipes it down with the corner of his shirt to remove any fingerprints. Then, hesitant, he presses the vial into the man’s lifeless hand, closing his fingers around it. Eli takes a moment to adjust to the absence of it. Twelve years he had carried that bottle, it was his protection, his insurance. Being rid of it feels… abnormal. Wrong.

  He reaches for the man’s bag to make it look lived-in, and finds a notepad inside. Spiral-bound and cheap. He flips it open, careful not to leave fingerprints, and sees a few pages of sketches. A bird. A mppost. A woman’s face, maybe drawn from across a cafe. They’re good. They’re alive.

  Eli’s breath catches.

  His hand trembles as he tears a bnk sheet from the back. Rooting around some more in the bag, he produces a bck biro. The words don’t come at first. Then, in tight, shaky print, he writes:

  I can’t live with what I’ve done. I hurt people. I hurt so many people. I took something I can’t take back.

  He stares at it for a long time. Then adds, smaller:

  I’m sorry.

  He slips the note into the notepad, careful to position it near the front where someone will find it. Someone like Arlo. It will be catalogued, and entered into evidence. And it will be believed. Because it has to be.

  He arranges the body to look careless, accidental, unremarkable. And when he stumbles back out onto the street, blinking into the too-bright day, he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t dare.

  The walk back to the apartment building is agonising. Mentally, yes, but Eli’s also been painfully reminded about the broken bone in his arm, now probably even more damaged. He plods zily along the pavement, his spirit shattered. He wonders how long it’ll take for the police to find the body. A few hours? The night? It might’ve already happened. Arlo could call him any minute to cancel their date because a new murder popped up. He didn’t think about that.

  He almost walks past the building. Looking up at the looming block of fts, he thinks back to just over a week ago. His life usually consisted of jumping between hotels, never looking back, never having to think too hard about anything. Now, things were complicated and messy. But it was worth it. That damn detective wriggled his way into Eli’s brain, heart, everything, and he wasn’t letting that go.

  He ducks into the foyer and starts the climb up the stairs, pain radiating throughout his body with every step. Muscle memory takes him to Arlo’s front door - it’s only when he reaches for the handle that he realises he’s gone one floor too far. Dejected, he traipses down to the apartment he was never meant to have. The one he took a life for. That didn’t sound as convenient as it did a few days ago. No. No. Don’t spiral. Not now.

  The door clicks open easily, still unlocked. No one had been by. Good. He enters and locks the door behind him, leaning back against the front door. He had to get himself under control. He had a date to prepare for. Just thinking about it puts the tiniest of smiles on his face, and the thought floods his brain with warmth. For a second, things felt like they might be okay. Eli moves to the kitchen sink and spshes cold water on his face, letting it drip and soak the front of his shirt. There he stays, gripping the edge of the steel basin with his good arm, breathing deep and slow, until he’s startled out of his meditation by the sound of footsteps. His head whips around to the door. The light spilling in underneath is broken up, obscured by two figures. They linger, and Eli can hear faint chatting. He doesn’t dare move until he hears the unmistakable sound of keys in the lock, and sees the handle start to move. Panic settles deep in his bones, his heart pounding out of his chest. There was no real pce to hide here. No furniture to duck under. No closets. He zeroes in on a narrow utility cupboard beside the bathroom door. The only option. He darts, swift and silent, into the tiny space, occupied by a sorry-looking mop and a dusty boiler. Squeezing as far as he can into the dingy cupboard, he pulls the door mostly closed, leaving a sliver of a gap so that he could observe what was going on.

  Just as he’d anticipated, two figures strode into the living room. One - a man dressed in an oversized white shirt with faint stains down it, carrying a rge ring of various keys - whom Eli recognised as the ndlord. The other was a woman, mid-twenties, dressed in a casual dark blue bzer and fitted trousers. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, tied loosely at the top of her head. She gives the impression of somebody professional, commanding, but she holds herself casually, rexed, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “Well,” she says, giving the pce a quick once-over, “no bloodstains on the walls. Already better than the st ft I looked at.”

  The ndlord chuckles nervously. “No horror stories here, miss. Good building, good neighbours. Solid little ft.”

  Eli leans forward slightly, peering through the thin crack to get a better view. The woman runs her fingertips lightly across the counter edge and smiles to herself.

  “Looks good,” she says brightly. “Not too big, not too small. Goldilocks would be thrilled.”

  The ndlord flips through a thick wad of papers, squinting at the one on top.

  “Interesting name,” he says conversationally, scribbling something with his biro. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a retive living here already?”

  The woman doesn’t even miss a beat. Without answering, she fshes a polite smile and tilts her head slightly.

  “What’s the rent again?” she asks, voice light, like she hadn’t heard the question at all.

  The ndlord chuckles again, seemingly used to tenants dodging his nosiness. “Seven fifty a month, all in.”

  She nods thoughtfully, walking a slow circle around the empty living room, tapping her knuckles once against the wall like she’s checking for hollow spots.

  “Not bad.” she muses. “Utilities included?”

  “Mostly,” the ndlord replies, flipping another page. “Bit extra for heating if it gets rough in the winter.”

  “Fair enough.” She turns back toward him, smile warm but measured. “Let’s sign some paperwork.”

  Eli, hidden in the dark, watches the exchange with growing dread. She’s serious. She’s moving in. This ft - this fragile little corner of safety he’d starved himself for three days for - is slipping through his fingers already. The ndlord mutters something about move-in dates and deposits, and documents slide between the two parties to be signed. A dozen pages ter, the papers are being shuffled back into a battered folder. The woman paces towards the window, drawing her fingers idly across the clean gss, as if already imagining herself here. She gnces around once more, seemingly satisfied, then checks her watch with a small, efficient motion.

  “Well,” she starts, cpping her hands together lightly, “the deposit will be with you by the end of the day. I’ll move my things in tomorrow.”

  The ndlord nods eagerly, ushering her toward the door with the usual promises of final checks.

  Eli holds his breath as they leave, the sound of their shoes scuffing the floorboards, the metallic scrape of the door lock turning. Only when the final click echoes through the empty ft does he sag backward against the boiler, breathing like he’s run a marathon. He suddenly realises how custrophobic the cupboard is, and his clothes stick to his skin with sweat. He forces the door open and stumbles into the ft, blinking against the bright afternoon light, every nerve buzzing uncomfortably under his skin. He stands in the middle of the room, dizzy with it. She’s moving in. He has to leave. There’s nowhere to go - certainly not anywhere close to Arlo. The loose threads of the situation he’d created were quickly unravelling, and he didn’t know what to do.

  Mechanically, he crosses to the bathroom, flicking the light on with a trembling hand. The mirror above the sink is cracked slightly at the corner, a thin, barely visible line splintering outward like a spiderweb. He leans in, bracing his good arm against the edge of the sink, and peers at his reflection. For a moment - just a flicker - he doesn’t see himself.

  He sees the monster.

  The thing that creeps out of alleys and presses poison into kind, unsuspecting hands. The thing that steals homes. The thing that kills good people for bad reasons. His stomach twists. The image vanishes almost as fast as it comes, swallowed up by the familiarity of his face - his soft mouth, his tired eyes, his scruffy hair hanging messily over his shoulders. But the damage is done.

  He drags a hand down his face, scraping fingernails lightly over his skin, as if trying to wake himself up.

  “Pull it together,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re not… you’re not that.”

  He stares at himself a second longer, until the stranger fades completely, and only Eli remains. Tired. Frayed. A ghost wearing a skin. But still him. Still someone trying to be better, even if the world keeps dragging him under. He straightens, running his fingers through his hair, and evaluates his reflection like a soldier preparing for battle. He looks rough. Worse than rough. He can’t show up at dinner looking like this. Arlo deserves more - someone good - and if Eli can’t undo the blood on his hands, maybe he can tip the scales a little. He makes a decision, sudden and absolute: No stealing. No shortcuts. Not for this. Today, he will earn it.

  He grimaces as he jostles his bad arm about, hurrying out of the ft and down the stairs after taking the quickest shower of his life. He has about five hours at least. That ought to be enough. It isn’t difficult to find odd jobs in a nowhere-town. Eli can’t count on one hand the amount of wns in need of mowing, or groceries in need of transporting. He’d tried this gig once before in another town, another life, but the moment he was left unattended in a stranger’s yard, he’d slipped in the back door and swiped what he could. It seemed easier at the time. Cleaner, somehow. Take what you need and keep moving. No confrontation. No guilt. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it isn’t about what’s easier. Maybe it’s about who you want to be when someone’s finally looking at you like you matter.

  He tightens his jaw and sets to work.

  He carries groceries three streets over for a woman who tips him in loose change and leftover biscuits. He mows a crooked patch of grass for an old man who doesn’t stop talking about the war. He fixes a garden gate that had rusted off its hinges. Small things. Things that don’t erase the blood on his hands, but maybe patch a little something over it. And he feels good.

  By mid-afternoon, his pockets are heavier with loose change than they’ve ever been, and he hops into the charity shop on the corner, grateful for the bst of musty air and the faint smell of old paperbacks that breaks up the smell of mown grass and pollen. It doesn’t take long to find what he needs. A clean, well-fitting button-down shirt, dark trousers that don’t quite match, but make it clear he’s made an effort, and even a tie - slightly frayed at the seam, but still holding together. He tugs the clothes on in the cramped fitting room, struggling with the buttons one-handed, and catches his reflection in the cloudy mirror. He still looks like a ghost wearing a skin, but the shirt is clean, the tie is straight, and the man staring back at him looks like someone trying. Maybe that’s enough. He carefully transfers everything from the pockets of his battered jeans to the new trousers, and neatly folds his old clothes, leaving them in the donation pile near the back of the shop. He counts the st of the money with careful fingers, as if each note and coin was worth twice its value. He hopes it’s enough to pay for dinner tonight, at least partially. Not because he’s trying to buy forgiveness. Not because he’s trying to erase the past. But because Arlo deserves to be loved by someone who still believes it’s worth trying to be good. Even if that someone is broken.

  Even if that someone is him.

  ?

  The day drags longer than it has any right to, and Arlo barely makes it through the morning without losing his mind. Every time he tries to focus - on paperwork, on case notes, even on simple bloody emails - his brain short-circuits back to the same memory. Eli’s hand, warm and solid in his. Eli’s lips brushing his knuckles, soft and impossibly reverent. The way he’d looked at him - like Arlo had single-handedly put the stars in the sky.

  It short-circuits him completely.

  He spills coffee on a report. He calls Detective Tate the wrong name. He spends an entire meeting with Torres nodding and taking absolutely no notes. Captain Huxley calls him into her office around noon and gives him a long, questioning look.

  “Are you alright, Detective Maxwell?” she asks, concern and suspicion battling for top spot in her voice.

  Arlo, a man who has interrogated murder suspects with a straight face, immediately panics and says, “Fine. Great. Never better.”

  Somehow - probably because Huxley is not actually paid enough to deal with whatever this particur brand of mess is - she lets him go early.

  By four o’clock, Arlo’s stuffing his belongings back into his bag with shaking hands and practically running out of the station. The walk home feels longer than usual, and the cool air does little to clear his head. Weirdly, he half-expects to run into Eli somewhere along the way. Outside the station. Leaning against the mppost across the street. Hovering nonchantly outside Arlo’s building like some half-shy, half-puppyish phantom. But the streets are empty except for the usual joggers and dog-walkers, and by the time Arlo climbs the steps to his ft, there’s no sign of him. His heart sinks a little, which is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. It’s just- he misses him. More than he should.

  The keys rattle in his hand and he tells himself to get it together, for god’s sake as he unlocks the door. The door unlocks easily - too easily. It’s only when he steps inside that he realises why. Someone’s already there.

  “Surprise!” a voice shouts from the kitchen.

  Arlo startles so hard he nearly drops his keys and his fingers instinctively reach for his firearm. Standing in front of the fridge, arms thrown dramatically in the air, is a woman with dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, an enormous grin pstered across her face.

  “Cara?” he croaks, blinking at her like she’s a hallucination.

  “The one and only!” she beams, hurrying over and flinging her arms around his neck.

  Arlo staggers a little under the force of it but hugs her back, ughing breathlessly. Of course she would show up unannounced. It’s so her to turn his entire week sideways with a single grin.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks when she finally lets go.

  She shrugs, casual and triumphant. “Visiting. Rescuing you. Buying groceries for your depressing bachelor pad. Being the best twin alive. Take your pick.”

  Arlo blinks at her, then gnces around the kitchen properly for the first time. The cupboards, once tragically bare, are now bursting with food. The fridge hums happily, crammed with actual meals, not just sad cartons of milk and half-eaten takeaway.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he says automatically, a lump of gratitude rising in the back of his throat.

  “I absolutely had to do that,” she says firmly, grabbing a biscuit from the counter and popping it in her mouth. “You were living like a feral goblin, Arlo. It was starting to affect the structural integrity of the building.”

  He huffs a ugh, scratching the back of his hair. “Still… thank you.”

  She waves it off like it’s nothing. “You’re welcome. And also - you owe me. Big time.”

  Arlo squints at her suspiciously. “Owe you for…?”

  “For this,” she says brightly, plopping herself onto the arm of the sofa like she owns the pce. “I rented the downstairs ft.”

  Arlo stares at her. “You what?”

  “The one right below you,” she says, pulling out her phone and waving it vaguely. “Closed on it this morning. Your weird ndlord has a personal space problem.”

  Arlo makes a strangled noise. “Cara - what - why?”

  “For you!” she excims, like it’s obvious. “Specifically, for your little disaster project of a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not - he’s not my boyfriend,” Arlo splutters.

  “Yet,” Cara corrects, grinning. “But he’s going to be. And you two living together after like, what, a week and a half? That’s a train wreck waiting to happen. Trust me.”

  He opens his mouth to argue, but she steamrolls right over him.

  “So now,” she continues, all bright and businesslike, “you can offer him the ft. Make it all casual. ‘Oh, hey, this just opened up, all paid for, what a coincidence!’ And you two can flirt and make eyes at each other without the crushing weight of domesticity ruining it before it even gets good.” She says it so breezily, like she’s arranging furniture, not upending his entire mental world.

  Arlo sinks into the sofa beside her, head in his hands. “I’m losing my mind,” he mutters into his palms.

  Cara snickers and shoves his shoulder affectionately. “You’re falling in love, you idiot. It’s gross and adorable.”

  He groans.

  She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, all the ughter softening into something sincere. “Seriously, Arlo. You deserve good things. You deserve to be happy. And if he makes you happy-” She shrugs. “Then I’m all in.”

  He peeks at her through his fingers, a rare wave of helpless affection breaking through the panic. Even if she doesn’t fully get it, she’s here. In her own weird, chaotic, bulldozer way - she’s here for him. And maybe that makes this whole terrifying, wonderful, messy thing a little bit easier to believe in.

  They sit in silence for a few moments, Cara tapping away at her phone and Arlo fiddling with a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. At some point she stops tapping and looks over at Arlo.

  “You’re weirdly fidgety,” she says, squinting. “Like, more so than usual. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he says a little too quickly, freezing.

  Cara’s eyebrows furrow and she gasps theatrically, pointing at him like she’s solved a murder. “You have a date.”

  “How the f-”

  “With Eli.”

  “Cara, I swear to God-”

  “YOU HAVE A DATE WITH ELI!” she crows, doing a little victory dance right there in his living room.

  “Would you stop shouting it-”

  “We need to fix you immediately,” she says, grabbing his arm and dragging him forcefully toward the bedroom.

  He stumbles after her, resigned to his fate.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he compins as she flings open his wardrobe.

  “You’re being depressing,” she fires back. “You look like a kicked puppy who lost his library card.”

  “What does that even mean?!”

  “Doesn’t matter. Stand still.”

  She rifles through his clothes like a woman on a mission.

  “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You have three shirts, two jumpers, and one sad little tie.”

  Arlo gres. “I have clothes!”

  “You have disappointments,” she corrects, finally pulling out a navy button-down that’s only mildly wrinkled. “Here. Wear this. And don’t shame the family name.”

  He takes the shirt reluctantly.

  “It’s just dinner,” he says, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

  “Yeah, and the Titanic was just a boating accident.” She shoves him toward the bathroom. “Shave. Fix your hair. Wear deodorant that isn’t an afterthought.”

  “I use deodorant!”

  “Use it like you mean it!”

  He ughs helplessly, the sound scraping out of him, raw and light all at once. As he closes the bathroom door behind him, he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His heart pounds against his ribs, a frantic, reckless drumbeat. It’s not that he’s worried he isn’t enough. It’s that he doesn’t know what to do with the way he feels. Like he’s standing too close to the sun and he’s about to fly apart in every direction. He braces his hands on the sink and breathes deep.

  It’s just dinner. Just Eli.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the swirl of nerves.

  “Cara!” he shouts through the door. “If I die of gay panic tonight, it’s your fault!”

  Her ughter echoes down the hallway, bright and unapologetic. Arlo stares at himself in the mirror for a beat longer, willing his heart to slow down. It doesn’t. He spshes cold water on his face, combs through his hair with his fingers until it looks vaguely intentional, and shrugs into the navy button-down Cara picked out. It fits better than he remembers. Still, he fidgets with the colr like it’s strangling him.

  He steps out of the bathroom, awkwardly holding the ends of the tie she’d thrown at him. Cara’s waiting in the bedroom, perched comfortably on the end of Arlo’s bed, her legs swinging like an impatient child. She beams when she sees him.

  “There he is! Look at you! Almost passable as an actual human.”

  Arlo groans, holding out the tie helplessly. “I suck at ties. I just- can’t-” he makes a vague, frustrated noise. “Help.”

  Cara hops off the bed with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing the tie from him.

  “Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers knotted in a tumble dryer,” she says, looping the fabric around his neck with zero finesse.

  “So close. But no. Not a saying.”

  “Be quiet.”

  She begins twisting the two ends of the tie together with all the confidence of someone who absolutely doesn’t know what they’re doing. Arlo watches her face twist in concentration, brows furrowing.

  “You don’t know how to do this, do you?” he says ftly.

  “Of course I do,” she lies. “I once watched a five-minute YouTube tutorial.”

  “That doesn’t inspire a lot of- ow!” he flinches as she yanks it a little too tight.

  “Stop being dramatic,” she says, stepping back proudly. “There. Perfect.”

  Arlo gnces down. The knot is… something. A lumpy, off-center, slightly tragic something. It looks like it’s holding on for dear life. He meets her expectant gaze and wisely says nothing. Instead, he starts tugging at the knot, slowly working it loose.

  “Maybe no tie,” he says diplomatically.

  Cara grins. “Good call. You were starting to look like you lost a bet.”

  He unknots it completely, tossing it on top of the dresser with a sigh. The open colr suits him better anyway, it’s a little less formal. A little less like he’s trying too hard. Besides, he’s pretty sure Eli’s not the ‘jacket and tie’ type. He’s not even sure Eli owns a button-down. As he adjusts the cuffs on his sleeves, a thought hits him, sharp and sudden: They never actually pnned anything. He freezes mid-roll.

  Cara notices immediately. “What? What’s wrong? You look like you just remembered you left the oven on.”

  “No pn,” Arlo mutters, pulling out his phone. “We didn’t make a pn. I don’t know where he’s going to be or when.”

  Cara grins, leaning over his shoulder. “Ooh, spontaneous. Sexy.”

  “It’s chaotic,” he grumbles, typing out a quick text.

  Hi. Did you want to meet somewhere ter? I’m home if that’s easier.

  He hits send, then immediately wants to throw his phone into the sea.

  “Rex,” Cara says, patting him on the head like he’s a distressed golden retriever. “You’re overthinking.”

  “I’m under-pnning,” he mutters.

  “You’re being adorable,” she says brightly. “Ridiculous. But adorable.”

  She flees to the living room as Arlo follows, attempting to pelt her with pillows. She dodges every one with a ugh and sprawls across the sofa, stealing the TV remote.

  “Alright,” she says. “You’ve got, what, a couple hours before your big romantic movie montage moment?”

  “Please stop talking.” “Never.”

  She flicks on the TV and scrolls aimlessly. Arlo hovers awkwardly, nerves crawling under his skin like ants.

  “You can sit down, you know,” Cara says, not looking at him.

  He obliges, sinking into the sofa beside her. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, the low drone of some baking competition filling the space between them. And slowly - slowly - Arlo feels the edge come off his panic. Not much, but enough.

  The longer the minutes and hours stretch on, the more often Arlo gnces at his phone like it’s a bomb about to go off. Cara pretends not to notice, feet kicked up on the coffee table, humming along badly to the theme song of whatever baking show she’s half-watching.

  The phone buzzes and Arlo nearly falls off of the sofa. Cara snorts into her sleeve as he scrambles to unlock it. The message is simple:

  perfect. see you soon x

  Arlo stares at it like it’s written in ancient Greek. Cara leans over, trying to read the screen upside down.

  “Ohhh, he sent a kiss.”

  “Cara.”

  “A kiss, Arlo.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You’re basically married now.”

  Arlo gres at her. She cackles and holds her hands up, surrendering. The words see you soon wedge themselves into Arlo’s brain like a splinter. Soon. How soon is soon? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Five seconds?! Panic spikes and nausea overwhelms him.

  “I have to cancel,” he blurts, standing up so fast he dislodges the coffee table slightly. “I’ll just say something came up. Tell him I got called into work. Fake food poisoning-”

  Cara stares at him, horrified and delighted all at once. “You absolute coward.”

  “I’m not ready!” Arlo hisses, pacing the living room like a trapped animal. His hands are shaking. His heart is hammering. “What if he changes his mind? What if he sees me and realises he made a mistake saying yes?”

  “Arlo,” Cara says, dead serious now, “you need to take a breath before you spontaneously combust.”

  He drags a hand down his face.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters miserably. “I don’t know how to date. I don’t know how to be… whatever this is.”

  Cara crosses the room and gently grabs his shoulders, steadying him.

  “Listen to me, you absolute muppet,” she says, voice firm but kind. “You like him. He likes you. That’s it. That’s literally it.”

  Arlo blinks at her, breathing raggedly. She softens, squeezing his arms once.

  “You don’t have to be anyone else tonight. You just have to show up.”

  He nods slowly, willing his body to catch up with his heart.

  “Good,” she says, releasing him. “Now stop pacing, you’re making me nervous.”

  He lets out a shaky ugh at the irony, and sinks back into the sofa, pressing his palms against his knees. Cara scrolls through the TV absentmindedly, humming again.

  “You’re gonna be fine,” she says breezily. “Worst case, you trip and fall into his arms dramatically like a bad rom-com.”

  “I think I’d rather die.”

  “Adds tension. Very Shakespearean.”

  The seconds drag. The minutes stretch. Arlo keeps checking the clock even though he knows it won’t make time move faster. He runs his hands over his shirt, adjusting it needlessly. Pulls his sleeves a little tighter. Checks his phone again even though there’s no new message.

  “Rex,” Cara says, stretching her legs back onto the coffee table. “You look great. You smell vaguely acceptable. You’re golden.”

  “You’re the worst motivational speaker I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you.”

  At that moment, a sharp knock sounds at the door. Arlo freezes. Cara lights up like a Christmas tree. She mouths dramatically, HE’S HERE, and does an aggressive little jazz hands motion. Arlo stares at the door like it has teeth, swallowing back the lump forming in his throat. His heart pounds so loudly he’s sure Eli can hear it from the hallway. Cara just grins and gets more comfortable on the sofa.

  “Fly, little bird!” She calls after him.

  He gres over his shoulder.

  “If this goes horribly wrong,” he mutters, “I’m bming you.”

  “Fair.”

  Arlo wipes his palms on his trousers, straightens his shoulders, and opens the door.

  The door swings open, and time folds in on itself, the world narrowing to a breathless stretch of golden lights and thundering heartbeats. Arlo freezes in pce, blood roaring in his ears. Standing just beyond the threshold is Eli.

  And he is-

  God, he is-

  Arlo’s brain bnks entirely, shoving every coherent thought into some deep, unreachable corner.

  Eli’s hair, falling in soft, loose waves, frames his face in a way that’s almost criminal, a tumble of warm brown curls that catch the st light of the afternoon and shimmer with hidden copper. The kind of effortless beauty that Arlo might have mocked in a movie if it hadn’t just walked into his life and smiled at him.

  And his clothes-

  The white shirt, slightly rumpled like he’s been fussing with it nervously; the dark grey tie, tied a little too loose and crooked at the throat; the sleeves rolled up in casual defiance-

  It should look awkward. It should look rushed. But it doesn’t.

  Arlo’s hands twitch at his sides. He feels like he’s standing at the edge of something vast and terrible and beautiful, like one wrong move might send him crashing into it - and part of him wants to crash, wants to fall headlong into the weight of it, even as the familiar panic rises sharp and bright in his chest.

  How am I supposed to survive this?

  Eli shifts slightly, clearing his throat in a soft, almost embarrassed way. That’s when Arlo sees it - the small, slightly battered tulip cradled carefully in his hand, the stem still damp, the petals just a little bruised from the journey. And when Eli speaks, it’s low and rough around the edges, but ced with that familiar warmth that always seems to find its way past Arlo’s defenses.

  “Arlo,” he says, with a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and somehow the single word shatters whatever fragile composure Arlo had managed to scrape together.

  He stands there, rooted to the spot, clutching at the doorway like it might save him from drowning in the way Eli is looking at him - like he’s something worth crossing oceans for. Eli steps forward, closing the careful space between them, and offers the flower without ceremony, without speeches, just a simple, unspoken offering.

  For you.

  For everything you are.

  For everything I am when I look at you.

  Arlo reaches out with shaking fingers, brushing Eli’s knuckles as he takes it, and the touch is electric - small, meaningless, world-ending. The tulip is damp and delicate and a little crushed, and it might as well be a treasure pulled from the center of the earth. He wants to say something - thank you, or you’re beautiful, or I think you might be the end of me - but the words tangle hopelessly in his throat, so he just clutches the flower like a lifeline and tries to remember how to stand upright.

  Eli watches him with that same steady patience, the faint smile deepening, the tension in his shoulders unwinding slowly as if every terrible thing pressing down on him has, for now, lifted away. Because here is Arlo, flushed and blinking and visibly panicking, and he is not afraid. He’s not pulling away. He’s standing there, looking at Eli like he is good, like he is wanted, like he is something worth waiting for. The blue of Arlo’s shirt makes his dark hair gleam where the light hits it, painting the edges with an almost surreal depth, a whisper of cobalt, and Eli’s gaze catches on the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose. Those small consteltions he’s memorised without even trying. Those tiny, perfect maps he would follow into hell itself.

  For a long moment - longer than makes sense, longer than either of them can measure - they just stand there. Silent. Breathless. The entire world peels away in soft, invisible yers until there is nothing left but this: two hopeless boys on the edge of something vast and terrifying and inevitable, trying not to fall and already too far gone.

  Eli smiles, wider now, a little crooked, and Arlo, hopelessly, helplessly, thinks that if he were a braver man, he would close the st of the distance between them and kiss him. Instead, he just clutches the tulip tighter and tries not to let the gravity between them rip him apart. And Eli, standing there in his imperfect shirt and his nervous smile, standing there with nothing but his heart in his hand, feels - for the first time in a long, long while - like maybe he doesn’t have to be anything more than what he already is.

  It’s Eli who breaks the silence first. He shifts his weight, thumb brushing almost absently against the inside of his wrist, and tilts his head in a way that makes Arlo feel like he’s been set alight under his skin.

  “You’re staring, detective,” Eli says, voice warm and teasing, though it carries something quieter underneath - something tender and almost disbelieving, as if he can hardly believe this is real.

  Arlo jolts slightly, his ears going pink, mouth opening uselessly before he manages to choke out a mortified, “Sorry.”

  Eli smiles wider, impossibly fond. “Don’t be,” he murmurs.

  There’s a beat where they just look at each other again, a little unsteady, like they’ve forgotten what words are.

  Arlo clears his throat, grasping at some sembnce of normalcy, some way to move, because if he stands here another minute he might actually combust where he’s standing.

  “You- uh- you look…” His voice fails him halfway through.

  He gestures vaguely, like all of this is self-expnatory, like it’s obvious Eli has single-handedly redefined the concept of beauty just by existing. Eli ughs, soft and low, and the sound coils around Arlo’s ribs and refuses to let go.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” Eli says, chuckling, and Arlo almost topples over.

  The door clicks shut behind Arlo, and for a second, neither man moves. Their shoulders touch and buzz with static electricity as they descend the many flights of stairs and exit the building. The street is bathed in the soft, but blinding light of early evening, the air cool and a little sharp, the town settling into the hush that always comes before dark. Arlo risks a gnce at Eli and forgets, briefly, how to function. Eli’s head is ducked slightly, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, and he looks softer. Shyer. Nothing like the man who usually stares at him like he’s memorising him. It’s not awkwardness, nor regret. It’s something careful and deliberate. Something that says this matters. Arlo swallows hard and clears his throat, the battered tulip cradled awkwardly in his hand.

  “There’s a little Italian pce near the high street,” he says, voice scratchy with nerves. “Thought we could head there?”

  Eli looks at him then - really looks - and the smile that stretches across his face is small and real and so full of something Arlo doesn’t dare name. He just nods, falling into step beside Arlo without needing more. They walk in silence for a few moments, a subtle breeze cool against the back of Arlo’s neck. Every few steps, their sleeves brush together, and every time it happens, their hearts stutter a little harder.

  Arlo risks a gnce sideways, and catches Eli doing the same. Their eyes meet for a second longer than is polite. Eli ughs, soft under his breath, and tilts his head at him.

  “You’re staring again,” he says, voice low and amused, but missing the usual sharp confidence, repced instead with something almost… bashful.

  Arlo huffs a nervous breath, cheeks burning.

  “You’re usually a lot cockier about it,” he says before he can stop himself.

  Eli’s grin is instant, lighting up his whole face in a way that makes Arlo’s stomach twist painfully.

  “Maybe I’m just trying not to scare you off,” Eli says, and it’s half a joke, half the truest thing either of them has said all evening.

  Arlo stares at his shoes, the tulip stem pressing into his palm.

  “You won’t,” he says quietly.

  He’s pretty sure Eli hears it anyway, because the grin softens and turns into something smaller and much harder to look at without falling apart completely.

  They walk on, the restaurant just a street ahead now. The warm lights from the windows spill onto the pavement, the low hum of conversation and clicking cutlery filtering into the street. As they reach the door, Eli reaches out instinctively and pulls it open, stepping aside to let Arlo in first. It’s a small thing. Automatic. Effortless. But Arlo notices. He notices everything about him tonight. And the worst part - or maybe the best part - is that Eli doesn’t even realise how easy he makes it look. How easy he makes it to want him.

  Inside, the restaurant is small and warmly lit, all dark wood tables and low golden lights, the quiet murmur of conversation filling the cozy space. It smells like garlic and fresh bread and something sweet baking somewhere in the back, and it’s somehow both inviting and overwhelming at once. Arlo hesitates just inside the door and Eli comes to a stop beside him, standing just close enough that Arlo can feel the heat radiating off him. A woman at the host stand looks up and smiles, polite and expectant. Arlo realises, betedly, that she’s waiting for him to speak. He clears his throat, feeling stupidly like he’s forgotten how restaurants work.

  “Uh,” he says. “Table for two?”

  The host’s smile widens slightly, something knowing fshing in her eyes, but she just nods and grabs two menus from the counter.

  “Right this way.”

  As they follow her through the restaurant, Arlo tries not to overthink every step he takes, every inch of space between them. The pce isn’t busy, but it isn’t empty either, and he feels seen in a way he isn’t used to - like everyone can tell what this is, even if he and Eli haven’t said it out loud.

  At a small table tucked into a corner, the host gestures for them to sit. Eli moves to pull out Arlo’s chair automatically, catching himself halfway through and hesitating, his ears going a little pink. Arlo huffs out a small ugh - too small to count as a real sound - and slides into the chair before Eli can ignite from embarrassment. He watches Eli sit across from him a second ter, smoothing his hand nervously down the front of his shirt. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Arlo pces the tulip he hadn’t let go of yet in the top of a decorative bottle on the table, the petals standing to attention between them like a little red fme, and feels the pulse of nerve still rattling around inside him. Eli leans forward a little, elbows on the table, chin tucked into his better hand, watching him with a soft, almost reverent kind of focus.

  “Now you’re staring,” Arlo says after a second, mostly to hide the way his face is burning.

  Eli shrugs, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Maybe I’m allowed to.”

  And Arlo can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t let him.

  Dinner passes in a warm, blurry stretch of time that Arlo knows he’ll never be able to recount properly, even if he tries. Eli, on the other hand, would memorise every detail.

  Neither of them really focuses on the food, most of it being ignored or pushed around with forks as conversation and ughter take over. Arlo drops his fork twice. Eli pretends not to notice, then does it himself five minutes ter just to make him feel better. They spend ten full minutes arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza (Eli’s fiercely in favour, Arlo looks at him like he’s confessed to murder), and ten more swapping horror stories about the worst meals they’ve ever eaten.

  “Once tried to make a cheese toastie,” Arlo says, poking his fork at his pte. “Set the toaster on fire. Didn’t even use bread.”

  Eli leans back in his chair, arms folded, grinning like he’s discovered a new favourite toy.

  “Is that why you live on cereal and coffee?” he says, eyes dancing.

  Arlo just shakes his head, smiling helplessly, trying very hard not to stare too obviously at the way Eli’s tie has come loose again, or how the light keeps catching the soft curls around his face.

  Later, when the waitress brings the bill, Arlo instinctively reaches for it. But Eli’s faster, slipping a few notes onto the tray before Arlo even processes what’s happening. Arlo blinks at him, startled.

  “Where did you…?”

  Eli just shrugs, casual but a little shy, like he’s hoping it won’t be a big deal.

  “Worked all day for it,” he says simply. “I wanted to. For you.”

  The words hit harder than they should. Arlo feels a heavy swoop of emotion in his chest - something impossible to ignore. The image forms: Eli, hurt and tired, dragging himself from odd job to odd job just to sit here across from him tonight, wearing that stupid, crooked tie and that soft, nervous smile. He clutches his napkin tighter under the table. He smiles, too, but it wavers slightly at the edges.

  “Thank you,” he says quietly.

  Eli just shrugs again, fshing him a grin that’s too big and too bright and entirely unfair.

  The waitress sweeps by to collect the tray, and for a long moment afterward, neither of them goes to make a move. Arlo’s holding the tulip loosely in one hand, twirling it idly between his fingers. He realises he doesn’t want the night to end. Not yet. And if he knows Eli, that look on his face says the same.

  Outside, the night air is cooler than before, crisp against their skin, and the streets are quiet, washed in the soft yellow pools of the old streetlights. They fall into step naturally, not speaking at first, just walking side by side, the comfortable silence of full stomachs and nerves they’re both pretending not to notice. Their hands swing close enough to brush sometimes - casual accidents that neither of them comment on. Arlo’s fingers twitch every time he catches the line of Eli’s shirt out of the corner of his eye, the way the loose material sways gently with each step, the easy rhythm of it.

  The town feels different tonight. Not smaller. Not bigger. Just… quieter. More real. After a few minutes, Arlo clears his throat lightly. He gestures vaguely to Eli’s right side, where his untidily re-bandaged arm still rests stiffly against his body.

  “How’s that feeling?” he asks, voice casual but lined with concern.

  Eli gnces down at himself, like he’s forgotten it was broken at all. For a second, he just smiles, easy and thoughtless, the way he always does around Arlo. Then he shifts, and a fsh of pain tightens his face, quick and sharp before he smooths it away. Arlo notices. Of course he notices. Eli tries to wave it off, a small, crooked shrug of his good shoulder.

  “I’m alright,” he says. “Feels like someone’s been twisting it all day, that’s all.”

  Arlo frowns, slowing his steps instinctively, like walking slower might somehow make it hurt less.

  “You should’ve said something,” he mutters.

  Eli shakes his head, a small, reassuring grin tugging at his mouth.

  “Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he says, softer this time.

  Arlo looks at him then and his words catch somewhere behind his teeth. It’s written all over Eli’s face: The stubbornness. The way he’s pushing through. The way he’s still smiling just because he’s here, because Arlo is here.

  Something in Arlo folds in on itself, sharp and helpless and achingly soft.

  They keep walking, slower now. Neither of them rushes. The night engulfs them, and every step feels heavier, more loaded, like they’re circling something they both know is coming but are too afraid to name yet.

  Every so often, Arlo catches Eli gncing sideways at him.

  Every so often, Eli catches Arlo doing the same.

  The looks linger a little longer each time. Tiny, stolen seconds charged with something that hums quietly under the surface. Their shoulders brush again, and this time neither of them moves away.

  The climb up the stairs is slower than it should be, every step weighted with something thick and breathless. At the nding, they stop in front of Arlo’s door. Neither moves. The hallway is dim, the old overhead light buzzing faintly, and the space between them feels alive, humming against Arlo’s skin, vibrating under Eli’s. Arlo’s hand tightens around the keys in his pocket, desperate for something to hold onto. He doesn’t want this night to end. Before he can second-guess himself, the words slip out.

  “Do you-” He swallows hard. “Do you want to come in? For… tea? Or something?”

  Eli smiles - soft, startled - and the way he says “Yeah,” so simply, like it’s obvious, like it’s easy, knocks something loose in Arlo’s chest.

  He fumbles the keys, mutters a curse under his breath, and Eli stoops to help instinctively, but Arlo snatches them up first, cheeks burning. When he straightens, Eli is closer. Too close. Close enough that the world tips sideways, shrinking down to the space between them.

  Eli shifts his weight, breath catching quietly in his throat. It would take nothing - half a step - and they would fall into each other. He can feel Arlo’s breath, shallow and quick. He can see the wild, terrified hope in Arlo’s eyes. He lifts his hand slightly, heartbeat deafening, rattling the walls, and he starts to speak, his voice breaking before the sentence even forms.

  “Can I-”

  But Arlo moves first. Without thinking, without breathing, he closes the st of the distance and kisses him.

  For a fraction of a second, Eli freezes - stunned, flooded with shock, the kind that bnks everything else out except for the single, blinding fact that this is happening. Then his brain catches up, and he melts into it with something like relief - like surrender. His good hand cups Arlo’s face automatically, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw, cradling him like something rare and fragile, something he can’t believe he’s being allowed to touch. The tulip tumbles from Arlo’s grip and he clutches at Eli’s shirt, anchoring himself. Eli leans in harder, the kiss deepening, slow and clumsy and desperate. Eli can feel it all pouring out of him - the care he’s been trying to hold back, the hunger to be wanted this way, the wild, staggering tenderness he can’t seem to contain.

  He kisses Arlo like he’s terrified he’ll be pulled away any second. Like Arlo is something holy and breakable and his.

  The hallway disappears.

  The world contracts to the press of Arlo’s body against his, the trembling in Arlo’s hands, the quiet, wrecked noise Arlo makes when Eli deepens the kiss just a little, careful even in the chaos of it.

  When they finally pull apart, it’s only by necessity.

  They stay close, breath mingling, hearts still hammering against each other through yers of cotton and skin and air. Eli keeps his forehead pressed to Arlo’s, not ready to let go. Not ever.

  “You beat me to it, detective,” he whispers, the words breaking apart in the middle from smiling too much.

  Arlo’s ugh is a rough, shaking thing between them, and Eli thinks he could live a thousand lifetimes and never need anything else.

  “I had a feeling you were gonna overthink it,” Arlo whispers back, voice trembling, but ced with a certain confidence that seems to surprise even him.

  Eli huffs a broken, disbelieving ugh and they both close their eyes, just for a second, soaking it all in. They linger there, breathing each other in, afraid to move in case the spell shatters. It doesn’t. It holds.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Arlo draws back enough to unlock the door. Eli follows him inside, dazed and weightless, like the ground under his feet isn’t quite real anymore.

  They step quietly into the ft, and almost immediately, Arlo freezes. Eli follows his gaze and sees the girl sprawled across the sofa, fast asleep, a bnket twisted around her legs, her face half-covered by one arm. Arlo nervously scratches the back of his hair, wincing.

  “That’s- uh. That’s Cara,” he says awkwardly, voice a little higher than normal.

  Eli’s eyes widen slightly, recognition sparking. A memory - a fsh of dark hair and easy confidence and professionalism. She looks an awful lot like the woman he watched earlier with the ndlord. But somehow, right now, standing in Arlo’s home, heart still racing, mouth still tingling from the kiss - it doesn’t seem to matter. Nothing matters but the man standing in front of him, blushing and beautiful and real.

  “Does she make weird noises in her sleep too?” Eli jokes quietly, grinning.

  Arlo rolls his eyes and nudges him toward the kitchen area.

  “Tea?” he offers weakly, voice cracking.

  Eli’s grin falls into a content smile, eyes shining with genuine happiness.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The kitchen light is soft, buzzing faintly above them as they fumble around in near silence, trying to be stealthy. Eli makes himself tea with slow, careful movements, his good hand steady but his fingers shaking just a little from leftover adrenaline. Arlo busies himself making coffee - stronger than he probably needs at this hour, but the familiar motions steady him, give his hands something to do other than reach. They bump elbows once at the counter and freeze, stifling ughter, pretending Cara isn’t just a few meters away.

  “You’re hopeless at this, I can’t believe they let you in the field,” Eli whispers, smirking and leaning in just enough to brush his arm along Arlo’s.

  “You’re the one making all the noise, banging cups around,” Arlo hisses back, but he’s grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Eli’s answering smile is warm enough to shatter him.

  Mugs in hand, they retreat back toward the living room - but just as they get close to the sofa, Cara shifts under her bnket, mumbling something incoherent. Both boys stiffen instantly. Eli gnces at Arlo, wide-eyed, and Arlo beckons him toward his bedroom without thinking. They tiptoe awkwardly down the hallway, into Arlo’s bedroom, closing the door behind them with the softest click they can manage. The second it tches, they sag against it, muffling their snorts of ughter into their sleeves.

  Arlo nearly drops his coffee trying to set it down on the bedside table. Eli sets his tea down more carefully, but when he straightens up, Arlo’s right there - hair rumpled, cheeks pink, smiling at him like the whole world just got knocked slightly off its axis. And maybe it has. Because one second Eli is just smiling back, and the next, Arlo is kissing him again. Softer this time. Slower. Eli’s hand find Arlo’s waist without thinking , pulling him closer, and Arlo makes a tiny, wrecked sound against his mouth that sends a shiver all the way down Eli’s spine.

  They tumble back toward the bed, bumping knees, giggling like idiots, both of them drunk on the newness of it, the weightlessness. Both of them getting to know eachother all over again. The version of Eli that’s shy and vulnerable. The version of Arlo that’s confident, no walls up. Arlo colpses onto the mattress, pulling Eli with him, and their ughter dissolves into kisses - sweet and clumsy and endless.

  The night feels eternal. They sit cross-legged on the bed talking about everything and nothing, feeling like teenagers. They kiss until the coffee goes cold on the bedside table. Arlo carefully re-binds Eli’s arm with a fresh bandage, whispering tiny reassurances every time Eli winces. They kiss until the tea’s forgotten, the sediment settling at the bottom of the mug. Eli teaches Arlo to py poker with a dusty old deck of cards they find in the bottom of a drawer. They kiss until the world outside the four walls of the bedroom doesn’t exist anymore. Somewhere in the tangle of limbs and whispered jokes, Arlo’s head finds Eli’s shoulder. Eli wraps his good arm around him, pressing his nose into Arlo’s hair, breathing him in.

  Neither of them says anything.

  Neither of them has to.

  Arlo falls asleep first, his breath slow and even against Eli’s neck. Eli stays awake a little longer, just… watching him. Protecting him, even if Arlo doesn’t know he needs it.

  Outside the bedroom, the world keeps turning. On Arlo’s phone, forgotten on the kitchen isnd, the screen lights up again and again and again.

  Twelve missed calls. All from the precinct.

  And one text:

  Detective Maxwell. URGENT: Another body found. With confession. Please respond ASAP.