Larkin rolled his eyes and gave Doyle a firm shove to the chest as his partner started laughing.

Doyle unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves back in what was apparently most comfortable for him if he were to be stuck in a suit for twelve hours a day, and said, “You seem okay right now.”

“A combination of exhaustion, relief, and positive associations,” Larkin explained. In answer to Doyle’s curious expression, he tapped his own lips, referring to their kiss. “But I’ll hit a wall once I’m off the clock and don’t have work to distract me.”

“You can talk to me,” Doyle offered. “If you need to vent. All right?”

“All right.”

“Larkin!” came Miyamoto’s muffled shout from the bullpen. She was the only member of the Squad to call him by his real name.

Larkin adjusted his tie, smoothed his shirt, and opened the door. “What.”

She stood, tall and thin with a pixie haircut, in the archway of the hall, jutting a thumb over her shoulder. “A Roger Hunt is here to see you.”

Larkin spun his Rolodex but came up with nothing. “I don’t know a Roger Hunt.”

“Something about Local4Locals—that motherfucking piece-of-shit vigilante app.”

Larkin drew himself up straighter, looked into the room at Doyle, then asked, “Where is he.”

“The lobby.” Miyamoto craned her neck. “Who’s in there with you?”

“No one.”

“Liar. Is it that artist guy? I know you’re married, Larkin, but there’s no harm in looking. I’d eat a three-course meal off his ass.”

Doyle stepped out of the room and joined them in the hall. “Hey.”

“Oh!” she said, surprised. “Hello. Aiko Miyamoto.” She offered a hand.

“Ira Doyle.”

“I don’t regret what I said,” Miyamoto stated. “You’ve got a smashing ass.”

“Ah… thank you.”

Larkin glanced up. There was definitely a bit of color under Doyle’s stubble. Maybe Doyle had met his flirtatious match in Miyamoto. Or a future HR harassment case. It was difficult to tell. Larkin said to Miyamoto, “Could you put Roger Hunt in Interview One for me.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

At 7:31 a.m., the coffee was lukewarm and the egg and cheese cold, but the breakfast Doyle had grabbed for Larkin on his way in had done wonders to better his mood. It was like that anchor that’d been dragging him down into the crushing, cold blackness of the ocean had finally slipped free of his body and he was kicking upward, the very distant ball of sunlight sparkling overhead, promising warmth and light and oxygen as long as Larkin didn’t stop swimming.

He knew this wasn’t the end of his troubles with Noah. In fact, it was going to be the beginning of something new and likely awful. But as Larkin entered the interview room with the pressure and taste of Doyle’s mouth still on his own, he felt practically… jovial.