But even with twice the recommended dosage of ZzzQuil rushing through his veins, Larkin lay wide awake in the dark bedroom, his back to the french doors. He listened to every minute sound Doyle made on the other side of the glass—the shift of jean-clad legs on the hardwood floor, the low murmur of the television cutting off when the game finally ended, the collection of takeout containers, the thump of the garbage bin lid, kitchen sink, bathroom door. Doyle entered the bedroom a few minutes later, quiet but for the rustle of undressing and pulling on a pair of pajama pants. The twinkle of fairy lights that’d reached all the way into the room, their glow like fireflies in a mason jar, clicked off, and the studio was swallowed whole by New York City darkness. The mattress dipped, and Larkin rolled onto his back. He might have still been working to establish new habitual routines, but this one had been easy, had been welcomed. Larkin stretched an arm out and Doyle accepted the invitation, drawing up against him and pillowing his head on Larkin’s chest.

Because even though Larkin wasn’t certain what they were together, what they were hoping to become, he at least knew that Doyle was his friend.

And sometimes, a hug from a friend was the only drug that helped him sleep at night.

It was 6:58 a.m. and Larkin stood in the bedroom, knotting his red floral-pattern tie and adjusting the collar of his crisp white shirt in the mirror hanging above the dresser. He tested the way the SIG P226 sat under his right arm in its shoulder holster, a weight he’d worn as a detective for seven years and that had long since become a part of him, before reaching for his charcoal-gray suit coat. He gave a black, white, and red houndstooth pocket square a quick Dunaway fold, tucked it into his breast pocket, and twisted it a few times to sit more artfully. Larkin had chosen green derbies with an elongated toe in a shade he’d thought to himself as split pea soup, until Doyle had made a passing comment one day about liking “those chartreuse shoes,” because of course the artist would say chartreuse in an everyday conversation without any trace of sarcasm.

Stepping out of the bedroom, Larkin studied Doyle seated at the kitchen table.

It’d turned out he wasn’t the only one with a routine.

Every morning—every single morning—Doyle took a run, returned home and practiced yoga, showered, dressed, made breakfast (he was partial to yogurt with granola and fruit), and then worked on his sudoku puzzles until it was time to head to 1PP.