Doyle hemmed. “Sort of. But I can spot the difference between sincere and fake assholery. It also helped that you’re cute.”

Larkin studied Doyle’s relaxed and playful expression with a sudden and overwhelming sense of… melancholy.

Larkin had acquaintances.

He had colleagues.

He had a husband.

But he had no friends.

He had no partnership—no day to complement his night. Until now. He’d known Ira Doyle for all of two days and the other man saw, really saw, more of Larkin than Noah did. Saw what Larkin thought he hid so well, because he was odd, he was strange, he was broken, and people hated being exposed to that sort of pain. Doyle saw Everett Larkin and took him and all of his complications in stride.

And it broke Larkin’s heart.

Broke his heart that he’d been begging for help, dying in front of Noah for a year, and the one who made Larkin eat, who hugged him, who gave that hair tie a tug to make sure he was okay, had been an absolutely gorgeous and kind man he wasn’t married to.

Larkin took Doyle’s face in one hand and kissed him. It was sudden, catching Doyle’s parted lips in surprise, but the kiss between them was firm. Certain. Doyle brought his big hands up and cupped just under Larkin’s jaw. He opened to Larkin’s touch, and Doyle tasted like oil from the egg roll, sugar from the Coke, and something a little like perfection. Larkin slipped his tongue free and kissed Doyle’s lips again, relishing the burn of whiskers against his own skin. He leaned back, still holding Doyle’s face with one hand. Doyle took a shaky breath, his hands sliding down to rest on Larkin’s shoulders.

They stared at each other.

Larkin moved in for a second kiss.

“Wait,” Doyle said. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Noah.”

Larkin gripped Doyle tighter, rubbed the pad of his thumb against Doyle’s stubble, then released him. He stood and took a step around the coffee table. “I have to go.”

Doyle jumped to his feet. “Evie, hang on—”

But Larkin opened the front door and left.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The kiss had been a catalyst.

It was past one in the morning—Larkin had been sitting on the couch for over two hours in absolute silence, suit coat forgotten at Doyle’s, shoulder holster still buckled to his body. He’d turned a lamp on when he’d arrived home, and the light glinted along the polished curve of his wedding band, which sat on the coffee table. Larkin stared at it.

How much did a wedding ring weigh? A few grams, Larkin thought. Not an ounce. Not even half an ounce. More like an eighth. So why did something so delicate feel like an anchor dragging him down, down, down into parts unknown?

Because Larkin was having domestic troubles.