The bathroom door opened.

Larkin raised his head.

Doyle turned. “Sorry, but can you use the other bathroom?”

A man in a suit, sweating despite the cool day, jutted a thumb to his right, saying, “It’s the ladies’ room.”

“A toilet is a toilet,” Doyle corrected. “Just knock first.”

Suit rolled his eyes as he left.

Doyle went to the door, threw the deadbolt, then walked across the bathroom. He leaned against the wall beside Larkin—close enough that their shoulders were a breath apart. “People don’t want to know.” He was quiet, so absolute in his agreeance. Doyle cast Larkin a sideways glance. “But I do.”

Larkin put a hand over his mouth as one very big and very heartbroken sob tore through him, wracking his entire body like a leaf battling a hurricane. Huge hot tears spilled down his cheeks and he considered: Had anyone ever said that to him?

Not his parents.

Not Dr. Myers.

Not Noah.

None of them.

They wanted Larkin to keep quiet because It’s been a year of this, Everett, you’re upsetting your father and he needs to focus on making partner.

They wanted Larkin to talk about the resulting change in his memory because Everett, research like this might one day help us discover a cure for Alzheimer’s.

They wanted Larkin to stop being sad because When you talk about him, Everett, I feel like you don’t want me.

Larkin was not okay. And people didn’t want to know.

“I’m a world-class hugger, if you—” Doyle didn’t have a chance to finish before Larkin turned into him and grabbed the other detective in a back-breaking embrace. Doyle let out a whoosh of air, choked out, “—want one,” and then wrapped his arms around Larkin.

Doyle smelled nice. He was warm. He was strong, all lean muscle under the cut of his suit. Best of all, he really did give an exceptional hug.

Larkin couldn’t remember when he’d allowed himself to be touched like this. Noah, of course, but when was the last time it’d felt like acceptance and not a means to an end? It wasn’t a hug that conveyed apology or jealousy or lust. Doyle’s hug was simply a hug, and Larkin was so fucking traumatized that—that sometimes—even his aversion to touch couldn’t overpower that single-most desire all humans craved.

To be loved.

After a moment, Larkin peeled his arms free from around Doyle’s neck and took a step back. He wiped his face dry with the paper towels still clutched in one hand, cleared his throat, and said, “I have a memory condition. HSAM.” He looked at Doyle. “Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Most haven’t. It’s rare. Fewer than one hundred cases worldwide. I know what you’re thinking: a cop with memory problems. I should be on disability, not employed with the city.”