Your apartment seems especially cold when you return. It's dark and it's late and heat has never been anywhere near the top of your list of things to spend money on. But it's not just a physical coldness, it's also one arising from loneliness. You spent an almost uninterrupted period of forty eight hours with Kim, more time than you even spent together in Martinaise.

Fighting the urge to collapse on the bed or sofa, you go over to the kitchenette. You light the stove and start to cook some rice. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. You should probably think about buying some vegetables at some point. That thought makes you smile. With Kim's help, you may actually get yourself back to something resembling health.

You play the record that is still on the deck while you eat. The song finishes before you do, so for the latter half of your meal you listen to the scraping and whirring of the record going round and round. When you finish eating you have the urge to dump your plate in the sink and ignore it and the pan until tomorrow, but the thought of Kim silently judging you prompts you to quickly do the dishes.

You shiver as you slip between the sheets. You wrap your arms around yourself and rub your upper arms. If only Kim was here so you could shuffle closer to share warmth, almost but not quite touching.

An image of Kim smiling at you appears in your mind. Telling you thank you for being there for him, for making his first few days in his new job pleasant ones. Is that a normal thing that anyone would say to their new partner? You certainly don't remember any of your other partners saying anything similar to you, but then again it's not something you ever said either. Even Jean, who had been so eager to impress you in those early days had drawn the line at actually thanking you.

Did Kim only say such things because the two of you were already friends? Does Kim think of you as a friend? Or potentially more? He's been endlessly patient and kind since the moment you met, willing to humour you and play along with you when needed, and even sometimes just because. He wanted to work with you, and he still does. He liked you so much he opted to switch precincts to be with you, to be your partner. He touches you casually, something you haven't seen him do with anyone else. And what's more, he is comfortable enough with you to share your bed.

You wonder if it's really so unlikely that Kim might have a crush on you. You know from your, in hindsight probably rude, questioning in Martinaise that Kim likes men. You're dying to know what his type is. You kick yourself for not asking back then, when you evidently had the balls to. Is it even more vanishingly unlikely that Kim's type is sad, ageing disco-men with drug and alcohol problems?

That's nobody's type, Harry.

Somewhere out there, you feel the joined thoughts of hundreds, no thousands, who disagree with you. What's more, you feel that they have been influencing you, your thoughts, your words, your actions.

You shudder. And tell yourself you must be imagining things to try to make yourself feel better, to absolve yourself from your sins. It's no good. The urge to disappear up your own arsehole in despair is strong. But you're fighting it.

Maybe you should say something to him. Not that. But you should say something just so he knows he's important to you. It has to be worth trying.

"Good night, Kim," you say to the empty room. You wonder if he has gone to bed yet, and if many kilometres away in his own apartment, he thinks of you too.

When Kim arrives at the precinct in the morning, he politely wishes the other officers a good morning, but he is making a beeline towards you. Also towards his own desk, but that is inconsequential.

"Good morning, detective," he says as he sits down opposite you. He isn't smiling, but there is a fondness in the way he looks at you.

"Good morning, Kim," you say, and quickly add, "I missed you." You immediately look away and grab a piece of paper you don't need, as if to appear casual about it.

Kim lets out a soft chuckle, and out of the corner of your eye you see him shake his head. "Very funny, detective."

You risk a glance up at Kim. He is taking his blue notebook out of his inside pocket and opening it up on the table. You're not quite sure what to make of his reply. Does he think you were joking? Or does he think you are ridiculous and annoying? You've been apart for almost twelve hours, isn't it natural to miss him? You guess by his reply that he hasn't missed you.

I mean it, you stop yourself from saying. What good will that do? He'll probably just laugh at you again. You shuffle papers around on your desk for a while, pretending to look for something.

Scraping your chair backwards, you stand. "Kim," you say hoarsely.

He looks up at you.

"Uh…" you say. "Coffee. Do you want some?"

"Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

You don't need to be crushed by this, you tell yourself as you trudge towards the kitchen. Kim might still like you but not be hopelessly sad to be apart from you for one night. Those are two things that can be true at the same time.

"Hey, shitkid, it's you."

You find yourself face to face with Jean. You've successfully avoided him for days. He looks tired. He sounds tired. Commenting on those things would be like stepping right into a trap. You don't know what to say to him. It's an impossible art, dodging the worst of Jean's jeers. And it feels even more impossible now the two of you are no longer partners. Is he angry about that? Is he upset? If you were to try to guess, he would tell you you were wrong. Best not to speculate.

"Coffee," you say, pointing at the pot which is in the process of brewing.

"Yes, it is coffee," Jean says, the note of exasperation rising in his voice.

You lean on the counter and tap a tune on it with your fingers.

Jean expels air from his nose with some force.

Your eyes wander over the walls, looking anywhere but at Jean. There is a large crack in the ceiling.

"So, enjoying domestic bliss with your new partner?" Jean says, disdain dripping from every word.

You're not sure if Jean just generally intends to get under your skin, or if he, Trant and Judit had been watching you and Kim very closely in Martinaise and drawn some conclusions that really, you can only wish to be true. You shrug in a manner you hope comes across as more casual as your declaration to Kim. "It's pretty good," you say.

"Pretty good?"

You meet his eyes. "Pretty good," you confirm.

He stares at you, as if daring you to say more. Surely the coffee has to be ready soon?

Walking past him, you open a cupboard. You open it and find your garish disco mug, and take out a plain blue RCM one for Kim, as he hasn't yet brought in one of his own.

"How are you liking your new partner?" you ask. Jean started this conversation, after all.

Jean frowns at you, then says, "Trant is Trant."

You find yourself nodding. You can't argue with that assessment, yet it tells you precisely nothing. "I expect you won't miss our times."

"Our times?" Jean says, and falls silent for a stretch of time that makes you think he is done with that thought. "I miss the privilege of never working weekends or nightshifts. Still don't know how you cheated your way into that one."

You gesture expansively. "What can I say, I'm persuasive. Aren't I?"

"No. No you are not. You have not persuaded me of anything. Not ever."

You find yourself smirking. "I think we both know that isn't true."

"All those nights of drinking and drugs. I was going to do that anyway."

"Good to hear it."

Finally the coffee pot has finished brewing. Without a word, Jean picks it up and fills not only his own cup, but yours and Kim's too. Then he turns on his heel and is gone.

You pick up the coffee mugs and head back into the office. Kim simply thanks you for the drink, and does not comment on how long you have been gone.

You decide to concentrate on your paperwork today and not say anything weird to Kim or anyone else. There are reports to read and sign off. There is no time for spontaneous improv or unusual topics of conversation. Unless Kim was to start it, that is.

After a while, you notice Kim looking at you. His glasses have slipped and he looks over the lenses at you. "You're very quiet today."

"It's Monday, isn't it?"

"Detective, it's Wednesday."

"Oh. Yeah. Of course it is." You feel stupid now. So much for not saying anything else weird.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." You're not sure you've answered that question honestly in the affirmative in at least a decade. Kim accepts your answer without another word. You need to gather your courage and talk to him again later, properly this time, and when you are alone.