“I’m sorry,” Larkin whispered. Doyle shook his head. He reached across Larkin’s lap and tugged the hair tie a few times. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be okay.” “I’m not.” “You had a life-changing night, didn’t sleep well, and this case—” “No. I mean, I haven’t been okay for eighteen years.” Larkin looked at Doyle, at the raindrops glistening in his dark brown hair like little diamonds. He was beautiful. And so kind.
