Larkin stared at the offering. The coffee smelled amazing. The egg and cheese even better. He looked at Doyle again, who smiled lopsidedly—uncertainly, even. Larkin opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removed a small pouch he’d learned after the fact was intended for cosmetics, but really was the perfect size for the handful of travel toiletries he kept on standby, and went downstairs without a word. He washed his face and underarms at the bathroom sink, slapped on fresh deodorant, brushed his teeth, and fixed his hair the best he could without a shower and product.

He returned to the second floor feeling a bit more coherent, put the toiletries away, then noticed that his forgotten suit coat from last night was draped over the back of his chair. He ignored Doyle standing beside Porter’s desk, laughing with the older detective and slowly winning over yet another member of Cold Cases with that Academy Award smile. Larkin walked all the way to the opposite end of the bullpen, down the hall with the two interview rooms, and pushed open the door to the Fuck It. He didn’t bother with the overheads—watery gray light was trickling in from the window opposite him. Larkin quietly shut the door, took a step to the right, and leaned against the wall. Big fat drops of rain started to splatter the glass. Another storm. He closed his eyes.

Larkin counted to eighty-seven before there was a quiet knock on the door. He glanced to his left as it opened and Doyle stepped inside. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Doyle shut the door. He took a few steps and sat on the wobbly desk, facing Larkin. He had his long legs stretched out, his hands planted on the desktop at his sides, assuming that now-familiar and welcome pose. “You slept here?”

“It wasn’t my intention.”

Doyle nodded, waited. No three-piece suit today, which was a real shame. More tweed, in an earthy green that would have washed out Larkin’s fair coloring, but suited Doyle surprisingly well.

“I told Noah. About last night.”

Again, Doyle nodded, but a cloud of shame darkened his features and lingered in his expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things—”

“Please don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

Doyle was staring at his shoes. “Was Noah upset?”

“I left him.”

Doyle’s head jerked so quickly, he probably suffered whiplash. “What?” He stood, once again that head taller than Larkin. “Oh my God. I didn’t—let me talk to him.”

Larkin shook his head. “No.”

“Larkin—”

“This was a very long time coming.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned his head back. “I struggled for a long time with the concept of love languages,” he said into the quiet. “You know these?”

“Affirmation, quality time, service, gifts, touch.”