He set out the ingredients, chopped shallots, and had just begun stirring stock into the rice when the door unlocked and swung open. Larkin met Doyle’s expression, could see the fine lines of stress from maintaining the personal and private guilt that’d been threatening to overwhelm him all afternoon, but he also caught a spark, a glint, of joy in Doyle’s eyes. Joy from simply seeing Larkin, even though it was—Larkin checked his watch—7:45 p.m. and they’d only been apart for an hour and ten minutes. Doyle’s smile came out, like sunshine burning morning mist, and the lines in his face snapped like tension wire giving way.

“Smells good,” he said, closing the door and propping his portfolio bag against the wall. “Risotto?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have time to wash up?”

Larkin waved his free hand in a shooing motion, but did take a second look as Doyle stepped into the bedroom, tossed his tie, vest, and suit coat on the foot of the bed with his usual lack of concern for wrinkles, before unbuttoning his white shirt and pulling it from his shoulders. Larkin would have to thank whatever yoga guru taught Doyle the crane pose, because he might not have been a big, buff guy, but every muscle in Doyle’s back and core were so defined that he could have been a living anatomical guide for medical students.

Doyle was in and out of the shower in a few minutes, rejoining Larkin in the same pair of relaxed, rolled-up jeans as yesterday and a plain black T-shirt. He grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, poured a glass of water, and set the table with silverware and napkins. Doyle removed two bowls from the cupboard and offered them to Larkin, who plated the steaming risotto, plopped a few seared scallops on top, and added the spinach he’d just finished sautéing.

It was 8:02 p.m. when they sat down to eat.

Doyle popped the tab on his Coke, held the can up, and said, “Here’s to your return to active duty.”

Larkin tapped his glass. “A hell of a welcome back.” He took a sip, put the glass down, and added, “Thank you for being there.”

“You’re welcome. Even though I doubt there was much assistance actually provided.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is?”

Larkin said, “Cold Cases often requires working alongside beat cops, detectives in other cities or states, and I’ve even worked with the FBI on a few occasions.”

“Sounds like a lot of dick-measuring.”

“Yes, and mine’s the biggest.”

Doyle clasped a hand over his mouth, but he snorted and a bit of Coke dribbled onto the tabletop. He grabbed his napkin to clean it.

“The point is,” Larkin continued, letting a smile slip, “those were necessary partnerships. Yours is different. I want to work with you. You know things I don’t. And—we balance each other out.”