Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

Epilogue - James

A low, crackling riff spilled from the speakers, the unmistakable, cigarette-scorched voice of Chris Whitley threading through the quiet."Big Sky Country . "It was a song meant for long roads and dark bars, but tonight, it drifted through the house, curling into the corners like smoke.

I sat at the dining table, red pen in hand, dissecting a stack of midterm essays ranging from brilliant to criminally incoherent. My mug—lukewarm coffee, too bitter, untouched for the last twenty minutes—rested near my elbow, leaving a faint ring on the wood.

Across the room, Marcus sprawled on the couch, reading over station reports, one hand resting on an open folder, the other idly scratching at the back of his head. His socks didn't match. I'd pointed that out earlier, and he'd grumbled about how they weren't supposed to.

The rich scent of something roasting filled the air—garlic, onions, and the deep umami of meat breaking down into tenderness. I should have checked on it, but Marcus had firmly told me to sit my ass down and stop fussing.

A year ago, we hadn't even lived together. A year ago, we'd been standing in the wreckage of what Elliot Raines had left behind, trying to remember how to breathe.

Now, the silence between us wasn't heavy. It wasn't loaded with things unsaid. It waseasy.

Marcus shifted, turning a page. The couch creaked, one of those small, familiar sounds I'd come to recognize, like the sound of his boots hitting the floor in the morning and the quiet way he sighed before falling asleep.

I stretched, setting my pen down. "You're frowning."

His head lifted. "You're grading."

I smirked. "Insightful."

He grunted, tapping the report in his lap. "You ever get papers that make you want to set your own damn desk on fire?"

"Oh, constantly." I leaned back, pressing my fingers into the knots at the base of my skull. "Half of these students want to use commas after every third word."

Marcus snorted. "That bad?"

"One kid somehow managed to use the wordallegedlyseven times in a single paragraph." I picked up the paper, reading aloud in my best imitation of a news anchor: "Serial arsonists allegedly display patterns of control, allegedly linked to personal trauma, allegedly dating back to childhood, allegedly—"

Marcus groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "I don't know if I should be more worried that he's this bad at writing or that he's gonna grow up to be one of your case studies."

"Both," I muttered, setting the paper aside.

The song switched. A lazy slide guitar eased into the room, followed by the gravel of Tom Waits's"Long Way Home."

Marcus stretched, arching his back before tossing the folder onto the coffee table. "You hungry?"

I glanced toward the kitchen. "Dinner's not done yet."

"That wasn't the question."

I chuckled, pushing back from the table, feeling the weight of the day settle lower in my body. Outside, the rain had started again, a soft, irregular tapping against the windows. It wouldn't let up until morning.

I met his gaze. "Yeah. I could eat."

He nodded, unfolding himself from the couch. "Good. Then let's eat."

Marcus moved toward the kitchen, stretching his arms over his head before rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the day. I followed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet and the scent of the slow-roasting lamb wrapping around my head. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, uncorking it with a practiced flick of his wrist while I peered into the oven, blinking against the rush of heat.

The roast had caramelized beautifully, the crust seared dark where the garlic and herbs had crisped against the surface. I tested a piece with the edge of a fork. It gave way easily, juices pooling at the bottom of the pan. Perfect.

"A year ago," I mused, setting the fork down, "you lived on protein bars and takeout."

Marcus poured two glasses of wine. "I still live on protein bars and takeout. You're the one who insists on making real food."

I took the offered glass, swirling the deep red liquid against the sides. "Because I enjoy not getting scurvy."

Marcus leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his glass. "What else was I doing a year ago?"

I took a slow sip, letting the wine settle before answering. "Carrying the weight of an entire firehouse on your back. Taking reckless chances because you thought you had to. Telling yourself that keeping your distance from people would somehow make losing them hurt less."

His smirk faded. "You gonna keep going, or was that enough of a punch to the ribs?"

I set my glass down. "You asked."

Marcus exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. I did."

I leaned against the opposite counter, feeling the warmth of the oven against my calves. "You ever think about him?"

I didn't have to say his name.

Marcus's jaw shifted. He took another sip of wine, slow and deliberate, before carefully setting his glass down. "Less than I used to. More than I want to."

I nodded, waiting.

He flexed his fingers against the countertop. "You?"

I stared into the wine, watching the way the light caught the surface. "Yeah."

The thing about Elliot Raines was that he had never needed to be in the room to make his presence known. He existed in the echoes of warped memories of burning buildings. He had lost, but theideaof him—the ideology he had built, plus the people who had believed in him—still lingered.

I hadn't checked the latest reports in months. At least, not in the way I used to, when I'd wake up at two in the morning, scrolling through databases and searching for patterns. Still, now and then, when I thought about the Pyreborn Covenant and the ones never caught, I wondered if I had really left it behind.

Marcus reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, where they rested against the counter. The touch was brief butsolid.

"You're not still chasing it," he said, quiet but firm.

It wasn't a question.

I shook my head. "No. Just… making sure it doesn't chase me."

He watched me for a beat longer, then nodded. "Fair enough."

Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the window in an uneven rhythm. The fireplace in the living room crackled with the music still humming low beneath it all.

Marcus tapped his knuckles against the counter. "You gonna help me carve this thing, or are you gonna keep standing there, looking dramatic?"

I laughed softly, pushing off the counter to grab a knife. "For that remark, you're doing the dishes."

He groaned, but there was warmth behind it. "I walked into that, didn't I?"

"Oh, yeah."

The lamb sliced clean under the knife, falling away in tender ribbons. I plated the food while Marcus grabbed silverware, setting the table with casual ease. A year ago, we didn't have routines. Now, there were rhythms—unspoken movements in our shared space, the natural shape of two lives merging.

We sat down, the warmth of the meal sinking into the quiet between us. The music had shifted again, something bluesy and slow—Susan Tedeschi's"You Got the Silver ," all honey and rasp. Outside, the rain blurred the streetlights into soft, gold halos.

Marcus took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then pointed his fork at me. "Alright. Your turn."

I raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"You laid me out earlier with the wholecarrying the weight of the world on my backthing. Now I get to return the favor."

I smirked, breaking off a piece of bread. "Go ahead. Hit me with it."

He leaned back in his chair, twirling his fork between his fingers. "A year ago, you were still running. Pretending like you were settling down when you were waiting for the next fire to drag you back in."

I took a slow sip of wine, letting the words settle. "Not untrue."

Marcus nodded, watching me. "And now?"

I set my glass down, tapping a finger against the base. "I turned down the full-time consulting job."

"I know that."

"But I didn't turn away from it completely." I shifted, feeling the familiar weight of my career choices pressing against my ribs. "I still work with them, here and there. It's good work. I get to use what I know without letting it consume me."

Marcus hummed, considering. "So you're staying put."

"I'm staying put." I held his gaze. "UW offered me a full professorship. It's mine if I want it."

His lips parted slightly, surprised. "And?"

"And I think I do."

Marcus nodded, a slow, approving motion. "That's solid."

"I thought so." I broke another piece of bread, rolling it absently between my fingers. "You ever miss it? The field?"

Marcus exhaled through his nose. "Yeah." He didn't hesitate, which I appreciated. "I miss the heat and the focus. That feeling when the whole world shrinks down to one thing, one goal, one job. But…” He set his fork down, thinking. "I don't miss wondering if my guys are getting the support they need. I don't miss knowing someone's about to break, and I don't have the power to fix it."

I nodded, understanding.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "We just launched a new program at the department. Mandatory mental health check-ins for all personnel. Not just after a bad call.Regularly."

I tilted my head. "That's a big deal."

"Yeah. And it only took a hundred years and a whole lot of people burning themselves out before we got there." His mouth pressed into a line, but there was satisfaction behind it. "I sit in a lot of meetings now. I push a lot of paperwork. But I'mgetting shit done.The kind of shit that matters."

I studied how his shoulders sat differently—still broad and steady but not bearing the same weight. "Good."

His lips twitched. "That your official professional assessment?"

"Oh, absolutely." I took another sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in my stomach.

For a long moment, we sat there, eating and drinking, the rhythm of the rain steady in the background.

I didn't know what came next, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to.

Marcus had just finished the last of his wine when his phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, lips twitching at whatever he saw before flipping it over.

I raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't a work text."

"Nope."

I waited. Marcus took another sip of wine, deliberately casual.

I leaned back in my chair. "You've been weird about your phone lately."

"I'm always weird."

"You've been weirder . "

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You sound like my mother."

"Your motherlikesme. That means I get to ask nosy questions."

"She doesn't like you. She tolerates you."

"Semantics." I waved a hand. "But go on."

Marcus exhaled, drumming his fingers against the table. "Michael's bringing someone to dinner on Sunday."

I blinked. "Michael? Your Michael?"

Marcus huffed. "He's not my Michael."

"He's absolutely your Michael." I narrowed my eyes. "And he's never brought anyone to dinner. Ever."

"Yeah, I know." Marcus picked up his phone again, checking the screen before locking it. "He hasn't said much, just that it's a thingand I should shut up and let it happen."

I grinned. "And yet here you are,notshutting up."

Marcus glared at me, but it was more amusement than anything else. "Don't make it a thing."

"Oh, it's already a thing."

"I mean it, James." He pointed a finger at me. "You and my brothers aremenaceswhen it comes to this kind of shit."

I tapped my fingers against the table. "What's their name?"

Marcus hesitated.

I sat up straighter. "Wait.You know their name, don't you?"

His mouth flattened.

"You do."

He sighed, rubbing his temple. "It's—" He hesitated, then muttered, "Alex."

"Alex," I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth. "Interesting."

"You don't even know them."

I shrugged. "Still interesting."

Marcus shook his head. "This is why I didn't tell you."

"You werealwaysgoing to tell me," I said smugly. "You just wanted to act like you weren't itching to talk about it."

He groaned, tilting his head back. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Regretting it a little right now."

I smirked, but there was real warmth in it. Michael—for all his gruffness, all his lone wolf bullshit—was finally letting someone in. That was a shift.

And Marcus? He wouldn't be this twitchy about it if he didn't think it mattered.

I tapped my fingers against the table. "So. What are we betting on? Lawyer? Cop? EMT?"

Marcus groaned again, grabbing his plate and mine before heading to the sink. "I swear to God if you make a thing out of this—"

"Oh, it's ahugething." I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head. "And Ican't waitfor Sunday."

The fire in the woodstove had burned low, the last embers shifting quietly beneath the logs. Outside, the rain softened to a fine mist, turning the world beyond the window into something blurred and weightless.

Marcus stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the dishes. He wasn't in a hurry. His movements were slow, deliberate, the way they always were when he was thinking about something but hadn't decided whether to say it out loud.

I leaned against the counter beside him, watching the water swirl down the drain, the soap bubbling over his knuckles before vanishing into nothing. The sound of it filled the kitchen—steady, unhurried. Familiar.

"You're quiet," I said.

He shut off the faucet, shaking his hands off before reaching for a towel. "Just thinking."

I picked up my wine glass, turning it absently between my fingers. "About what's next?"

Marcus met my eyes, his expression unreadable for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah."

I exhaled, considering. "I think we've spent so much time surviving that we never really asked what we want beyond that."

Marcus didn't say anything right away; he just studied me the way he always did—reading between the words and listening for what I didn't say aloud.

I set my glass down. "I went under."

His head tilted slightly, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

"When?" he asked.

"Last week," I admitted. "At the lake."

I remembered every detail, including how the water had closed over me, cool and soundless, pressing against my skin but not suffocating. I hadn't planned it. I'd just walked in like I always did, past the familiar breaking point, and then, without thinking, I'd let myself sink.

For decades, I hadn't been able to do that.Not since I was a child. Not since the water had been a trap instead of a choice.

Marcus's fingers brushed against mine, a quiet point of contact, grounding me in the present. "How'd it feel?"

I let out a slow breath, eyes dropping to the countertop. "Like… nothing." I paused, searching for the right words. "Like I was justthere . No panic. No weight. Just the quiet, just the water, just…" I trailed off, shaking my head.

Marcus's hand closed around mine fully now, his grip solid, steady. "Good," he murmured.

I nodded. "Yeah."

The rain tapped lightly against the window, rhythmic and soft. The quiet between us wasn't heavy, and I wasn't waiting for the next crisis to fill it.

For the first time in decades, the water wasn't something to fear.

For the first time in decades, I had let it hold me.

And when I came back up, I didn't need to gasp.

***

Thank you for reading Burn Patterns . It is the first book in the First in Line series.