Larkin quietly shut the front door to 3C, threw the deadbolt, and hung his ring of keys on a hook they’d installed after one too many times of Larkin misplacing the set. The apartment was a one-bedroom in a hundred-and-twenty-year-old walk-up on the Upper East Side. Furnishings were modern and simplistic, ornamentation kept to a minimum, lighting low and warm, curtains pulled shut across the windows overlooking Eightieth Street. The television was on in the front room, the murmur of a commercial barely audible. Noah was in the kitchen off to the left, rustling through a bag, setting plates on the counter—the takeout had beaten Larkin by a minute at best.

Walking across the room, Larkin dropped his library book on the couch and kept moving into the adjoining bedroom. He went through the motions: hang up suit coat, fold pocket square, store weapon and shoulder holster in the safe, watch, cuff links, and phone on the nightstand. He’d tugged his tie free as the old floor creaked, announcing Noah’s presence in the doorway.

“Hey.”

Larkin turned. “Hi.”

Seemingly fine now, after Larkin had been the one to apologize earlier, Noah came forward, leaned down, and kissed him. “How was your appointment?”

Larkin caught Noah by the back of the neck, drew him into a second kiss, then said, “It could have been better.” He let go and unbuttoned his shirt.

“What happened?”

Larkin considered, pulled a T-shirt over his head, then said, “Just an interview with a new intern.”

Noah laughed lightly. “Did this one call you superhuman? Like the last guy?”

“Almost.” He dragged pajama pants on, and when Noah draped his arms over Larkin’s shoulders, he instinctively pulled his husband closer by the hips.

“They treat you like an oddity.”

“I am an oddity.”

Noah raised a hand, tilted Larkin’s head, and kissed his right temple. “Where your noggin got knocked loose.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.”

—Boom. Squish. Crack—

A quake shook Larkin from the inside out—rattled bones, warped muscles, flipped organs. He stepped back from Noah, scrubbed his face with both hands, and said, “Let’s sit down and eat.”

“Everett—”

“I’d like to sit down.”

The petulant jut of Noah’s jaw returned, but he bit back whatever venom he had ready to spit, turned, and walked out of the bedroom, saying something about the chicken vindaloo, vegetable curry, and naan in the kitchen.

Larkin shook his head. Like walking on eggshells. He collected his phone and stepped into the front room when he noticed a text message notification that’d come in over an hour ago. He swiped and opened the rarely used app (he was one of the few Millennials to prefer phone calls), tapped the message, and a gif loaded of a woman—was Larkin supposed to know who she was?—giving finger guns with a subtitle that read: Don’t worry about it, babe.