And then Doyle kissed him. Whether he meant to or not, it was happening now—and it was nothing like their other kisses, which had been gentle, tentative, affectionate. This was hard and aggressive, like Doyle wanted to fight the demons Larkin carried inside by literal tooth and nail. Lips and tongue and hot breath, hands grabbing at suits, chests bumping, middles touching—all of it sparking a flame, a rebirth inside Larkin.

This wasn’t how it’d been at the lake, on the dock, with Patrick. There was no hesitation, no shakes, no shivers. This wasn’t Larkin’s first kiss, and Doyle wasn’t a boy; he was confidence, intelligence, and devotion, coalescing in the body of a man whose outer appearance was that of downplayed attraction. A suggestion that he hadn’t wanted to be noticed too much. Hadn’t wanted to be taken too seriously. But Larkin noticed. And Larkin had eventually seen through the ploy.

For eighteen years, Larkin had been dressing in blues and pinks and greens and golds that no average man would touch with a ten-foot pole, because it seemed like a last-ditch effort to add color to a world that had robbed him of such pleasure. Left in a void after the boom, the squish, the crack—and gray had no home on a color wheel. Then he’d met an artist named Ira Doyle and everything had erupted in a blinding white, a composite of all the colors. And the storm began to move in reverse, the rain and thunder and lightning backtracking into the sky, restoring the watercolor portrait of his life that’d been washed away. The dandelions were yellow again, the campfire orange again, love was red again.

But this was better.

This was so much better.

Doyle broke first. His lips were parted, bruised, his breath quick and light. “I don’t regret that,” he whispered.

Larkin mentally replayed what he’d said to Noah the night before. “I’d kiss you again if you let me.”

Doyle smiled, his entire face a beam of sunshine, radiant and unadulterated as he leaned in to allow just that.

“Oh!” called the startled voice of a young woman from behind Doyle. “Geez. I’m sor—hang on—it’s Stabler and Benson!”

Doyle let go of Larkin and turned while smoothing his rumpled shirt.

Larkin cleared his throat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

It was the same blonde, alt-reality fashionista from Monday—Kelly. Currently donned in another pair of mom jeans and a tucked-in button-down with a floral print pattern about two sizes too big, she smirked and said, “I don’t remember that episode.”

Doyle at least had the good graces to look chagrined.

Larkin reached into his suit coat and produced a folded piece of paper. “I have a warrant for all employment records pertaining to a Harry Regmore.”