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The supply closet was Rafael’s idea.
Nick wanted that understood.
Later—when the shelf was lying crooked across the floor, when Olivia was pinching the bridge of her nose as though she could physically crush the memory out of her skull, when Fin was collecting twenty dollars from a delighted Amanda Rollins—Rafael would attempt to dispute this fact.
But it had been Rafael’s idea.
“You,” Rafael said, catching Nick by the sleeve as he passed the narrow corridor beside the break room. “In here.”
Nick looked at the supply closet. Then at Rafael’s hand curled around the fabric of his jacket.
“Excuse me?”
“I need to speak with you.”
“You need to speak with me in a closet.”
“Unless you would prefer that I explain in front of the entire squad why the chain-of-custody form you submitted reads as though it was completed by a concussed third grader.”
Nick’s jaw tightened.
“The form was fine.”
“The form,” Rafael said, opening the door, “listed Detective Tutuola as the arresting officer, Detective Rollins as the evidence clerk, and me as the victim.”
“You act like one often enough.”
Rafael’s eyes narrowed.
Nick should have walked away.
Instead, he stepped inside.
That was how it always happened with them.
The squad had watched Nick and Rafael argue about practically everything that existed. Search warrants. Arrest procedures. Coffee. Parking. Baseball. The correct route to the courthouse. Whether Rafael’s scarf was burgundy or red. Whether Nick had deliberately taken Rafael’s pen or merely developed an inexplicable habit of leaving the precinct with it in his pocket.
They argued in the squad room, in hallways, outside courtrooms and over late-night takeout. Sometimes they argued over telephone calls that lasted long after the original disagreement had ceased to matter.
Nobody believed it was normal.
Amanda had once told Nick that watching him fight with Barba felt uncomfortably like witnessing foreplay.
Nick had informed her that she needed professional help.
Then Rafael had arrived, complained about the way Nick had parked his motorcycle, and spent the next ten minutes standing close enough that Amanda had simply raised her eyebrows and walked away. Nick had pretended not to notice the way Rafael’s shoulder kept brushing his, or how neither of them seemed particularly interested in ending the argument. Rafael had pretended not to notice that Nick was smiling.
At some point, the arguments had become foreplay. The sharp remarks lingered too long, the silences grew too charged, and every disagreement ended with one of them standing far too close to the other. Neither Nick nor Rafael had admitted when it happened. They had simply continued arguing, as though refusing to name it could keep the truth from becoming real.
Rafael shut the closet door behind them. The thin fluorescent light above the shelves flickered once before settling into an unpleasant yellow glow.
The room was too narrow for an argument between them. It was too warm for Nick’s temper and much too confined for the way Rafael occupied space when he was irritated—chin raised, shoulders squared, every inch of him sharpened into prosecutorial indignation.
Nick folded his arms.
“You dragged me in here over a typo?”
“Three typos.”
“Could’ve told me at my desk.”
“I tried.”
“No, you stood over my shoulder and made that sound.”
Rafael frowned. “What sound?”
“That judgmental little exhale you do.”
“I was breathing.”
“You were criticizing me.”
“With my respiratory system?”
“You know exactly what you were doing.”
“I assure you, Detective, if I intended to criticize you, you would not have to interpret my breathing to identify it.”
There it was.
That precise, maddening courtroom voice. The one Rafael used when he believed he had cornered somebody into revealing the truth. It made Nick’s shoulders tense and his pulse quicken for reasons he preferred not to examine.
Nick stepped closer, narrowing the already limited space between them until Rafael had to tilt his chin slightly to maintain eye contact.
“You got something to say, counselor?”
“I have already said it. Your paperwork is atrocious.”
“My paperwork was fine.”
“Your paperwork made me the victim of an assault I prosecuted.”
“Maybe the form knows something I don’t.”
Rafael’s mouth tightened.
Nick saw the moment he fought a smile and suppressed it.
That only irritated him more.
It had been happening for nearly two months now.
The arguments that became kisses. The kisses that became nights in Nick’s apartment or Rafael’s, although Rafael preferred Nick’s because Nick kept better coffee and had blackout curtains. They would fall into bed still bickering, wake tangled together and refuse to discuss what any of it meant.
Except Rafael had developed a habit of leaving before Nick woke.
The first time, Nick had barely noticed. The second time, he had told himself it was convenient, that Rafael had court and Nick had an early shift and there was no reason to turn a quiet departure into something it was not.
By the fifth, however, Nick had started waking at the slightest movement, listening through half-sleep as Rafael dressed in the dark and slipped out before sunrise. He would lie still beneath the blankets, eyes closed, pretending not to hear the soft pull of a zipper, the muted click of a belt buckle, the careful footsteps crossing the apartment. Rafael always moved as though he were trying not to disturb him, and Nick began to wonder whether that consideration was the point—or whether Rafael simply did not want to be there when morning made them acknowledge what they had done the night before.
That morning, Nick had woken alone again.
Rafael’s tie had been draped over the back of a kitchen chair, the only proof that Nick had not imagined the weight of him in bed.
Nick had stared at it while his coffee went cold.
“You left,” he said.
Rafael’s expression shifted, the faintest hesitation passing over his face before it settled into practiced composure. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Ah.”
“I had court.”
“You always have court.”
“And yet the judiciary continues to expect my presence,” Rafael muttered.
“You could’ve woken me.”
“You looked tired.”
“Don’t do that,” Nick muttered.
“Do what?” Rafael asked.
“Make it sound like you were being considerate when you were really sneaking out.”
Rafael raised his eyebrows. “I did not sneak.”
“You put your shoes on in the hallway.”
“Because you complain when I wake you.”
“I complain when you steal the blanket.”
“You sleep like you’re trying to strangle it.”
“You leave like you’re escaping a crime scene.”
“You’re a detective,” Rafael said. “Perhaps you could provide a more persuasive comparison.”
Nick took another step.
Rafael did not retreat.
That was another thing the squad noticed. Neither of them understood how to argue from a reasonable distance. Every disagreement drew them closer until they were nearly chest to chest, their voices lowering as the tension sharpened.
Amanda called it deeply unsubtle.
Fin called it exhausting.
Olivia had stopped looking up unless one of them began shouting.
“You left without saying goodbye,” Nick said.
“And now we have arrived at the actual issue.”
Rafael said it quietly. Calmly. Almost gently.
Nick hated that more than the sarcasm.
He hated that Rafael could look at him and know which bruise to press. He hated the neat line of Rafael’s collar and the careful knot of his tie. He hated that the tie around Rafael’s neck was not the one in Nick’s kitchen, because that meant Rafael had replacements ready for nights he never intended to acknowledge in daylight.
“There is no issue,” Nick muttered.
“Of course not.”
“Don’t.”
“I agreed with you.”
“No, you did that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That sarcastic lawyer thing.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Nick moved before he could think better of it. He caught Rafael by the tie and pulled him forward—not hard, but quickly enough to erase the smugness from Rafael’s face and replace it with something far more dangerous.
For one suspended second, neither of them spoke. The cramped closet seemed to contract around them, filled only by the faint hum of the fluorescent light and the uneven rhythm of their breathing. Rafael’s gaze dropped to Nick’s mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent, and Nick felt that look like a touch—warm, deliberate, and far more intimate than anything either of them had said aloud.
“You left your other tie at my place,” Nick said.
“I’m aware.”
“You knew?”
Rafael glanced away. “I noticed when I had to choose another one this morning.”
“And you didn’t come back for it.”
“At five thirty in the morning?” Rafael asked.
“You didn’t have to leave in the first place.”
Rafael’s eyes returned to his.
“Then you should have asked me to stay.”
Nick’s grip tightened around the silk. “I shouldn’t have to.”
“Why? Because I am expected to infer it?”
“You’re pretty good at figuring out everything else.”
“I am not going to assume I am welcome simply because you continue letting me into your bed.”
The words took some of the heat from the room.
Nick stared at him.
Rafael had gone very still, though Nick could feel the pulse beating rapidly beneath the collar trapped inside his fist.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Rafael gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Yes, because I frequently sleep with men without giving the matter any thought.”
“I don’t know what you frequently do.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“You’re the one who leaves before I wake up.”
“Because when we are not having sex or arguing, you behave as though acknowledging what is happening between us might kill you.”
Nick’s temper flared, partly because Rafael was wrong and mostly because he was not.
“You don’t acknowledge it either.”
“I’m acknowledging it now.”
“By starting a fight in a supply closet?”
“I brought you in here to discuss your paperwork.”
“You brought me in here because you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
Rafael opened his mouth.
Nick pulled him closer by the tie.
“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Rafael’s eyes had darkened. “You are frequently wrong.”
“About this.”
“You are wrong about your paperwork,” Rafael said, his voice clipped as he held Nick’s gaze.
“Rafa,” Nick whispered, tightening his grip on Rafael’s tie.
Rafael’s expression softened despite himself. “You left a coffee on my desk this morning,” he said, brushing an invisible speck from Nick’s lapel.
“So?” Nick asked, though his attention followed every movement.
“You remembered my order,” Rafael said. He rested one hand against Nick’s chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm.
“I know your order,” Nick replied, his voice lower now.
“You remembered that I had an arraignment and brought it before I arrived,” Rafael said. His thumb moved once over the fabric of Nick’s shirt before he seemed to realize what he was doing.
“You’re welcome,” Nick murmured, leaning closer.
Rafael studied him for a moment. “You did not say good morning,” he said, the accusation quieter than before.
“You left before I woke up,” Nick answered, his fingers loosening slightly around Rafael’s tie.
“Which brings us back to the beginning,” Rafael whispered. He stepped closer until there was barely any space between them.
“Funny how that works."
They were inches apart now. Nick could feel Rafael’s breath against his mouth. The argument had not ended; it had merely changed shape, words thinning beneath the weight of everything they refused to say directly.
Rafael’s hand settled against Nick’s chest, but instead of pushing him away, his fingers curled into the fabric of Nick’s shirt.
“You are infuriating,” Rafael said, his voice low as he held Nick’s gaze.
“You came looking for me,” Nick said, leaning closer.
“To correct your report,” Rafael said. His thumb shifted against Nick’s chest, betraying the tension in his otherwise controlled posture.
“You could’ve sent it back,” Nick whispered.
“I wanted to explain the errors,” Rafael said, his mouth tightening as though the excuse sounded weak even to him.
“You circled them in red,” Nick said, glancing briefly toward Rafael’s hand before looking back at his face.
“You ignored the corrections."
“I wanted you to explain them."
Rafael’s eyes narrowed with sudden understanding.
Nick felt a smile pull at his mouth.
“You deliberately resubmitted the form without fixing it?”
“Maybe.”
“You wasted my time because you wanted my attention?”
“I brought you coffee.”
“You could have used words.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Rafael stared at him for half a second longer.
Then he kissed him.
It was not gentle. Nick’s back struck the closet door hard enough to rattle the handle, and the impact sent a faint shiver through the narrow room. Rafael kissed him with all the frustration of their argument, as though every sharp word they had exchanged had been leading them here. One hand remained twisted in Nick’s shirt, holding him close, while the other slid around the back of his neck and drew him deeper into the kiss. Nick made a rough sound against his mouth, the last of his restraint giving way, and pulled Rafael closer by the tie.
This was what their arguments always threatened to become.
Every sharp word had merely been another step toward this: Rafael’s mouth hot and insistent against his, Nick’s fingers curling around his waist, both of them too stubborn to admit how badly they had wanted it from the moment Rafael stopped him in the hallway.
“You’re still an ass,” Nick said against his lips.
“And you’re still terrible at paperwork.”
Nick kissed him harder.
Rafael stumbled into him, one knee knocking between Nick’s legs. Nick caught him, turned them and pressed Rafael back against the nearest shelving unit.
Something metal clattered above them.
They froze.
Rafael glanced upward.
A box of staples teetered near the edge.
Nick watched until it settled.
“Careful,” Rafael whispered.
“You’re the one who backed into it.”
“You pushed me.”
“You dragged me in here.”
“To discuss your report.”
“Right,” Nick said, smiling. “Very professional.”
Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Rafael did.
His mouth crashed into Nick’s again, and Nick briefly forgot that they were at work, that the squad was ten feet away, and that the shelving unit behind Rafael had just issued a clear warning. Nick’s hand slipped beneath Rafael’s suit jacket and settled against the small of his back, drawing him closer as though the narrow closet could somehow contain the force of everything they had been refusing to say. Rafael’s fingers found Nick’s belt loops and used them to pull him flush against his body. The contact sent a sharp rush through Nick, and he groaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed by Rafael’s mouth.
“Jesus, Rafa.”
“Do not begin invoking God now,” Rafael breathed. “It is far too late for that.”
Nick laughed, the sound swallowed by Rafael’s mouth.
The shelf gave a long, ominous creak.
Neither man listened.
Nick kissed along Rafael’s jaw, feeling the roughness of late-afternoon stubble beneath his lips. Rafael tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, and Nick felt his breath hitch when he found the sensitive place below Rafael’s ear.
“Nick,” Rafael whispered.
There was something vulnerable in it. Something that reached beneath Nick’s ribs and caught hold. The sound was not a warning, not quite an invitation, but it carried enough uncertainty to make Nick slow down. For all their arguments, all the sharp words and reckless kisses that followed them, Rafael rarely let himself sound uncertain. He preferred control. He preferred knowing exactly where he stood and exactly what he was asking for.
Nick lifted his head.
Rafael looked flushed and rumpled, his hair disturbed, his tie pulled crooked in Nick’s fist. The sight did something dangerous to Nick’s self-control. It was not merely the dishevelled appearance or the heat still lingering in Rafael’s eyes. It was the way Rafael looked at him afterward, as though Nick had managed to reach somewhere no argument could touch and Rafael had not yet decided whether to retreat or stay.
Nick loosened his grip on the tie but did not let go.
“You gonna disappear again tomorrow morning?” Nick asked.
Rafael’s expression changed.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“If you want me to stay, ask me.”
Nick’s pride bristled automatically. “You know I want you there.”
“I know many things you have never actually said.”
“I just said it.”
“You implied it.”
Nick stared at him. “I swear to God—”
Rafael kissed him before he could finish.
Nick reacted on instinct. He caught Rafael around the hips, Rafael tightened his grip on Nick’s belt loops, and both of them shifted hard against the shelving unit.
There was a sharp metallic snap.
Rafael’s eyes opened.
Nick had just enough time to say, “That doesn’t sound good,” before the entire shelf tore away from the wall.
It came down with the deafening crash of a small building collapsing.
Paper towels, file boxes, printer cartridges, cleaning supplies, spare binders and what appeared to be the precinct’s entire stock of yellow legal pads poured over them.
Nick threw one arm over Rafael’s head.
Rafael ducked against his chest.
A box of pens exploded across the floor. A mop struck the opposite wall. Three rolls of toilet paper bounced out from beneath the wreckage and rolled serenely toward the door.
For several seconds, there was complete silence.
Then Rafael said, muffled against Nick’s shirt, “Don’t.”
Nick looked down at him. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“I was gonna ask if you were okay.”
“You were going to make a joke.”
“I can do both.”
The door opened and struck Nick in the back.
“Amaro?” Amanda called. “Barba?”
Nick closed his eyes.
Rafael’s forehead dropped against his shoulder.
Amanda pushed harder. “Why is the door blocked?”
“Closet’s occupied,” Nick said.
There was a pause.
“What?”
“Go away, Rollins.”
Instead, Amanda shoved the door again. Nick stumbled forward, taking Rafael with him, and the gap widened enough for her to peer inside.
Her eyes travelled over the fallen shelf, the scattered supplies, Rafael’s crooked tie, Nick’s unbuttoned collar and, finally, Rafael’s hand still hooked firmly into Nick’s belt loop.
Amanda’s mouth fell open.
“Oh,” she said.
Nick pointed at her. “Not one word.”
Her face transformed with pure, unrestrained delight.
“Oh my God.”
“I said not one word.”
“Fin!” she shouted over her shoulder.
Rafael recoiled. “Rollins, don’t you dare—”
“Fin!”
Footsteps approached at a leisurely pace.
Fin appeared behind Amanda and surveyed the scene without any visible surprise. His gaze paused on Rafael’s hand.
Rafael released Nick’s belt loop as though it had burned him.
Fin nodded once. “Shelf finally gave up, huh?”
“Finally?” Nick demanded.
“Been loose for months.”
“And nobody fixed it?”
“Put in a maintenance request.”
“When?”
“February.”
“It’s September.”
Fin shrugged. “Government building.”
Amanda was grinning so widely Nick briefly considered hiding beneath the wreckage.
“This is better than I imagined,” she said.
“You imagined it?” Rafael asked faintly.
“Not specifically the supply closet.” She glanced at Fin. “I had the interview room.”
“Too many windows,” Fin said.
“I specified after hours.”
“You did not.”
Nick looked between them. “You bet on this?”
Amanda folded her arms. “We bet on when the two of you would finally stop making the rest of us miserable and do something about all that.”
“We are not making anyone miserable,” Rafael snapped.
“You argued about a blueberry muffin yesterday,” Amanda said.
“It was mine.”
“It was sitting on the communal table.”
“My name was on the bag.”
“Your name was on the receipt.”
Nick glanced at Rafael. “You’re still mad about that?”
“You ate my breakfast.”
“You said you didn’t want it.”
“I said I did not want it after you had taken a bite.”
Fin held out his hand to Amanda. “Pay up.”
“You picked the closet?”
“Picked before Friday.”
Amanda sighed and slapped a twenty-dollar bill into his palm.
More footsteps approached.
Olivia appeared at the end of the corridor with Carisi behind her. She stopped when she saw the wreckage, her gaze moving from the collapsed shelving unit to the scattered supplies, then to Nick and Rafael standing far too close together in the middle of it.
“What happened?” she asked.
Nobody answered.
Nick looked at Rafael. Rafael looked at Nick. Neither seemed willing to explain why the supply closet appeared to have been hit by a small explosion.
Olivia’s eyes moved across the scene with the weary resignation of a woman who already suspected the explanation would shorten her lifespan. She took in Rafael’s crooked tie, Nick’s rumpled collar and the unmistakable tension still hanging between them.
“Please tell me the shelf collapsed on its own,” she said.
“It did,” Nick replied.
“At some point,” Rafael added.
Olivia closed her eyes briefly, as though summoning the patience required to survive the rest of the afternoon.
Carisi leaned around her shoulder.
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”
Nick pointed at him. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”
Carisi raised both hands. “I was just gonna ask if anybody was hurt.”
“Thank you,” Rafael said, visibly relieved that someone was behaving like an adult.
Carisi looked at the broken shelf. Then at Rafael. Then at Nick.
“But, uh—were you two fighting?”
“Yes,” Rafael said immediately.
“No,” Nick said at the same time.
They looked at each other.
Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “We were discussing his report.”
“You kissed me first.”
“You pulled me forward by my tie.”
“You grabbed my shirt.”
“You told me to make you shut up.”
“You didn’t have to take it literally.”
Amanda made a strangled sound.
Fin calmly pocketed his winnings.
Carisi looked helplessly at Olivia, as though she might provide some explanation for the peculiar dynamic unfolding in front of him. “Is this how they always—”
“Yes,” Olivia said, cutting him off before he could finish.
“We do not always do this,” Rafael protested, his voice carrying the brittle dignity of a man who had just been caught in a supply closet with his tie crooked and his hand on a detective’s belt loop.
“No,” Amanda agreed. “Usually they make us sit through the entire argument and then leave before the good part.”
“Rollins,” Olivia warned.
“I’m done.”
She was not done. Her shoulders were shaking, and the effort of suppressing her laughter only made her grin more obvious. Carisi glanced from her to Fin, then back to Nick and Rafael, finally seeming to understand that this was not an isolated incident but the culmination of a long-running spectacle the entire squad had apparently been following with the patience of people waiting for a particularly obvious confession.
Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You’re both cleaning this up.”
“Of course,” Rafael said.
“And neither of you is ever having a private conversation in a supply closet again.”
“Lieutenant—”
“I do not want to hear it.”
She turned away, paused and looked back at Rafael.
“Your tie.”
Rafael stiffened.
Nick finally noticed that he was still holding the tie, its silk twisted around his fingers and pulled crookedly from Rafael’s collar. He released it at once, letting the fabric fall back against Rafael’s chest.
Rafael adjusted the knot with a sharp, embarrassed tug, though the flush in his cheeks had nothing to do with the disheveled tie.
Olivia walked away.
Carisi followed, although he looked over his shoulder twice before disappearing. Fin wandered back toward his desk with the peaceful satisfaction of a man whose afternoon had improved considerably.
Amanda remained in the doorway.
Nick glared at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Leave.”
“I’m just wondering if you need help.”
“We don’t.”
“With the shelf,” she clarified innocently.
Rafael picked up a fallen roll of paper towels and threw it at her.
Amanda ducked, laughing, and pulled the door mostly shut behind her.
Silence returned.
Nick surveyed the devastation. The shelving unit lay twisted across the floor, its contents scattered beneath their shoes and spilling into the corridor. Paper towels had unfurled in long white trails, legal pads were bent beneath overturned boxes, and pens had rolled into every corner of the closet.
Rafael stood amid the wreckage with his suit dishevelled, his cheeks still flushed and three ballpoint pens caught in the fold of his jacket. His tie hung crookedly around his neck, and one sleeve was dusted with the fine gray residue that had shaken loose from the wall.
Nick reached over and plucked the pens free one by one, placing them carefully on the nearest intact shelf. Rafael watched him with an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to smile.
“Well,” he said.
Rafael raised a stern finger. “If you make one joke, I will prosecute you personally.”
“You can’t prosecute someone for knocking over a shelf.”
“I will find something.”
Nick caught his hand before he could lower it.
Rafael’s annoyance softened as Nick threaded their fingers together.
For a moment, they simply stood there amid the wreckage, both of them listening to the squad attempt—and fail—to pretend they were not discussing what had happened.
“You staying tonight?” Nick asked.
Rafael looked at him.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Yeah.”
“Or an assumption?”
Nick sighed. “Rafa.”
“I would like clarity.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You are attempting to start another argument.”
“Maybe I like arguing with you.”
“I had noticed.”
Nick stepped closer, but this time there was no anger in it.
“Stay tonight,” he said. “Stay in the morning too. I’ll make coffee.”
Rafael studied him as though searching for a qualification or a hidden escape clause.
Nick squeezed his hand.
“I want you there,” he added.
Something unguarded flickered across Rafael’s face.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay.”
“No sneaking out?”
“I do not sneak.”
“Rafa.”
“I will not leave without waking you.”
Nick smiled. “Good.”
He leaned in.
Rafael placed one hand flat against his chest and stopped him.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“We are standing in the wreckage of a shelving unit.”
“So?”
“The entire squad is ten feet away.”
“They already know.”
“That is not an argument in your favor.”
Nick glanced toward the door and then back at Rafael.
“One kiss.”
“No.”
“Quick one.”
“Pick up the printer cartridges.”
Nick bent and kissed him anyway.
Rafael resisted for approximately half a second before grabbing the front of Nick’s shirt and kissing him back.