—dock planks rough and sun-kissed, their toes dipping in and out of the cool lake water as they swung their legs back and forth with the carefreeness of the children they still were, Patrick’s fingers working down Larkin’s bare arm with the tentativeness and novelty of first love—

Click.

—Doyle crawling into bed when Larkin couldn’t get out, pulling the sheet over their heads, his face haloed in white cotton and sunshine, his smile undeniable proof that there was still one thing in this fucking world that was beautiful—

Click.

—“Do you think we’ll be together forever, Everett?”—

—“Whenever you’re ready, you can talk to me.”—

Click. Click.

—“I love you.”—

—“People don’t want to know. But I do.”—

Clickclickclick.

“Hey.” Doyle switched hands on the wheel before taking Larkin’s into his own and pulling it away from the console. “Evie?”

Larkin blinked, letting out the breath he’d been holding. He stared at Doyle’s big hand wrapped around his own, the hair tie on his wrist. “Never mind.” He tugged his hand free from Doyle’s and turned to watch the sunlight sparkle and glitter atop the dark water until it made his eyes tear.

It was 1:06 p.m. when Doyle parallel parked outside PS 51 in Inwood. He turned off the engine but hadn’t opened the driver’s side door before Larkin spoke.

“I need a Xanax.” Larkin held an expectant hand out. “I haven’t had one yet.”

Doyle had taken control of Larkin’s prescription a little over a week ago. He’d been limiting Larkin to his daily dose while at home, which had been… tolerable, since he’d still been on medical leave and could always depend on ZzzQuil if he needed something a little extra. But Larkin could already tell this new routine would not be successful, now that he had returned to active duty. Doyle kept the Xanax well-hidden at home, hence Larkin having to hide a backup prescription, but at least Doyle had taken to carrying two pills on his person at all times, because he’d admitted to not knowing when a panic attack would strike and Larkin would need medication.

Doyle didn’t question him, shifting in his seat to retrieve the discreet, daily container from his pocket and dropping one pill into Larkin’s palm.

Larkin dry-swallowed the Xanax and then got out of the car. He stepped between bumpers, swiped his keys from Doyle’s hand, and led the way across the street toward the five-story high school with a façade reminiscent of medieval castles, like its architect had had an identity crisis during the design phase. Larkin pulled open the bright red front door and was promptly stopped by a uniformed school safety agent.

“Can I help you, sir?” the woman asked, standing from her desk and moving to intercept Larkin’s path. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, slick bun.