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The low ceiling of The White Horse presses down against the thick, warm hum of Sunday evening chatter, smelling of spilled ale, damp wool, and centuries of polished oak. It is the twelfth of April, but the Oxfordshire air still carries a sharp, biting chill that makes the pub’s cramped interior feel less like a public house and more like a sanctuary. At a corner table beneath a stained-glass window, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis sits opposite Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent.
The case is wrapped up—the paperwork filed, the statements taken, the tragic, tangled mess of it finally put to bed. Robbie holds his pint of bitter with both hands, letting the condensation cool his palms. He is fifty-seven, and every single one of those years feels etched into his shoulders tonight. The heavy wooden door swings open, letting in a swirl of April twilight and Laura Hobson. She navigates the crowded floor with her coat slung over her arm, her face noticeably flushed beneath her dark hair.
"Laura," Innocent greets her, her sharp eyes instantly tracking the distinct, vibrant pink hue across the pathologist’s nose and cheekbones. "You're quite sunburnt."
Laura drops into the empty bench seat with a dramatic sigh, fanning herself with a cardboard beer mat. "So I am. Kosovo was beautiful, but the April sun is deceptive. I entirely forgot I wasn't in gloomy old Oxford." She leans forward, resting her elbows on the sticky table, her curiosity getting the better of her. "So, come on, then. Don't leave me out. How went the Midnight Attraction case?"
Innocent raises an eyebrow over the rim of her dry white wine. "Addiction."
Robbie lets out a heavy, tired breath, staring down into the amber depths of his beer. The thrill he had felt just days ago—the boyish, nostalgic rush of standing in Richie Maguire’s home studio, watching a legendary 1960s rock band assemble right before his eyes—has completely curdled. "Turns out, Esme Ford really is dead," Robbie says, his voice flat, stripped of the fandom that had initially blinded him. "And the woman who showed up on Richie Maguire's lawn is Esme's sister, Maureen. Maureen and Vernon were conspiring in order to pull off a reunion of The Midnight Addiction, and all three murder victims were killed because they knew the secret."
He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. He thinks of young Lucas, the boy from the orphanage who had only wanted to find where he belonged. "Lucas because he'd traced his long-lost grandmother, and both Bone and Samantha because they'd independently figured out that 'Esme' was really an impostor." Robbie shakes his head, a profound sadness settling into the lines around his eyes. "There will sadly never be a true reunion. Just greed, a bitter old woman, and three people who shouldn't be dead."
Laura’s expression softens, her professional detachment slipping away to reveal genuine sympathy. She looks thoroughly apologetic for asking, realizing she has dragged him right back into the grim reality he was trying to drink away. "Robbie, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Before she can finish, the pub door opens again. James Hathaway steps into the warmth of the bar. He looks pale, his slender frame practically swallowed by his dark wool coat, his silver-blond hair slightly windswept. He looks around the crowded room, his intense, brooding gaze scanning the patrons until it lands squarely on Robbie. There's an unspoken, fragile gravity between them. They have been officially dating for exactly fourteen days, a fortnight of whispered conversations, lingering glances in the Vauxhall, and an underlying, agonizing tension.
For Robbie, the insecurity is a constant, quiet hum—he is nearly three decades older, a widower, a man of a different generation entirely. For James, the hesitation runs even deeper, rooted in the scars of a homophobic seminary life that had spent a decade drilling shame and self-loathing into his bones. But right now, looking at Robbie’s tired, shadowed face, James seems to forget all of it.
He crosses the room with purposeful, long-legged strides. He doesn't look at Innocent. He doesn't look at Laura. He stops right at the edge of the table, reaches down, and twists his fingers into the lapel of Robbie’s jacket. Without a word of warning, James leans down and unceremoniously yet passionately snogs the living daylights out of Robbie. It isn't a gentle, polite greeting. It is a deep, needy, bruising kiss born of a long day of enforced professional distance. James’s eyes are squeezed shut, his thumb pressing firmly against Robbie’s jawline, anchoring them both in the middle of the crowded pub. Robbie freezes for a fraction of a second, his brain scrambling to process the sudden warmth of James’s lips, before his hands instinctively find James's hips, pulling him closer.
James is entirely textbook oblivious to their surroundings, utterly failing to notice Chief Superintendent Innocent and Laura Hobson sitting less than two feet away. Across the small table, Innocent slowly lowers her wine glass. Laura’s jaw drops slightly before a massive, delighted grin breaks across her face. The two women exchange a highly amused, knowing glance, their eyes darting between the two detectives. They look very interested in the proceedings, silently enjoying the sheer, unadulterated shock of the moment. James finally pulls back, just an inch, his breath hitching in his throat. His gaze is dark, heavy, and entirely focused on the older man.
"I've been thinking about doing that all day, Robbie," James says, his voice dropping into a low, seductive cadence that Robbie has never heard him use in public before.
Robbie’s heart thumps violently against his ribs. His cheeks flush a deep, weathered red, but he doesn't let go of James's coat. "Same here," he murmurs honestly, his northern accent thick and warm.
A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat shatters the bubble. "Evening," Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent says, her tone perfectly nonchalant, as if she were merely commenting on the weather rather than her DI and DS locking lips over a bowl of pub nuts.
James jumps as if he’s been electrocuted. He detaches himself from Robbie so fast he nearly trips over his own boots. The pale skin of his neck and face instantly floods with a brilliant, agonizing crimson, stretching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks wildly around the table, his intellectual composure completely disintegrating. He clears his throat, gives a stiff, incredibly awkward little wave, and tries to look anywhere but at his boss.
Robbie, realizing they are entirely exposed, clears his own throat and pushes himself to his feet, desperate for a diversion. "I'll get the drinks in," he announces, his voice a bit rougher than usual.
"No," James interjects quickly, his voice cracking slightly with residual panic. He needs an escape route from Innocent’s piercing gaze. "I'll get them."
Robbie looks at him, seeing the frantic, endearing vulnerability in the younger man's eyes—the ghost of the boy who was taught that this kind of affection was a sin. Robbie’s expression softens, a quiet, protective warmth overriding his own embarrassment.
"No, no," Robbie says gently, bumping his shoulder against James’s arm. "We'll both get them."
Together, shoulder to shoulder, the two men turn and walk away toward the safety of the crowded bar, their movements synchronized, a silent understanding passing between them as James’s hand briefly brushes against Robbie's lower back.
Back at the table, Innocent watches them go, a small, uncharacteristic smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She waits until they are safely out of earshot before she turns her head to look at the pathologist. "How long do you suppose...?" Innocent asks, trailing off with a raised eyebrow.
Laura looks over at the bar, watching the way James leans in close to whisper something into Robbie's ear, making the older inspector's face light up with a genuine smile. She shakes her head in disbelief, a soft laugh bubbling up.
"I turn my back for five minutes..." Laura replies, raising her glass in a silent, happy toast to the bar.