“As needed,” Larkin said.

Doyle gave him a questioning, suspicious look. “Yeah, I can read. It says one tablet up to twice daily, as needed.”

Larkin scoffed, grabbed the pill, and dry-swallowed it. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. As Doyle closed the bottle and returned it to the console, Larkin was struck with an almost overwhelming urge to cry. He covered his face with one hand and took in a shuddering breath.

“Last night,” Doyle began, his voice in harmony with the pat, pat, pat of rain on the windshield. “I told you I don’t drink.”

Larkin didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“I self-medicated after losing Abigail. Hard. Gin was my go-to. It’s okay to hurt, but you can’t blame yourself.”

Larkin lowered his hand and looked at Doyle.

Doyle’s eyes were too bright. “You have to be careful with that stuff, okay? It comes with directions for a reason.” He looked out the windshield, shook his head, then opened the passenger door.

Larkin peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth to… say what, exactly? Apologize for being a pill-popper? Beg Doyle not to scream at him the way Noah had?

Doyle leaned down and motioned Larkin toward him. “Slide over. I’m driving.”

“It—it doesn’t affect my driving,” Larkin said.

“That’s great. Slide over.”

Larkin awkwardly maneuvered himself from the driver to passenger seat, which he had to pull forward because, Jesus, Doyle was tall. Door still open, rain still falling, Doyle crouched and studied him.

“I’m sorry,” Larkin whispered.

Doyle shook his head. He reached across Larkin’s lap and tugged the hair tie a few times. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be okay.”

“I’m not.”

“You had a life-changing night, didn’t sleep well, and this case—”

“No. I mean, I haven’t been okay for eighteen years.” Larkin looked at Doyle, at the raindrops glistening in his dark brown hair like little diamonds. He was beautiful. And so kind. Why the hell was he expelling energy on a hopeless case like Everett Larkin?

Doyle leaned up, pressed his forehead to Larkin’s, and carded his fingers briefly through his short hair. “There isn’t a finish line in this race. It’s not about sprinting—it’s about stamina to keep going.” He stood, shut the door, and moved around the front bumper to the driver side. Doyle slid in partway, pushed the seat back, then managed to get comfortable. He checked the mirrors before pulling into traffic.