18. James
Chapter eighteen
James
T he mattress beneath me held indentations of Marcus's body, worn in places that spoke of restless nights spent mentally processing calls that went wrong. I traced the subtle valleys with my fingertips while Marcus breathed steadily beside me, his presence simultaneously comforting and overwhelming.
Sleep refused to come. Whenever I closed my eyes, my brain remembered details I couldn't shut off—the precise temperature required to melt different synthetic fibers and how smoke had curled through my apartment with deliberate artistry.
Marcus shifted closer in his sleep, reaching his arm across my ribs. The contact should have felt stifling after everything, but instead, it anchored me.
When I turned my head to study his profile, I saw the subtle rigidity in his jaw. Even asleep, he held himself like someone prepared to wake at any moment. Ready to run toward whatever was burning.
"James." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "You're thinking loud enough to wake the neighbors."
"Didn't mean to disturb you."
"Wasn't really sleeping." His eyes fluttered open. The usual sharp focus was softer around the edges but no less intense. "I keep seeing your apartment and how close you cut it."
I tensed. Marcus delivered me from danger without hesitation, but I hadn't considered how it affected him and how many other burning buildings held ghosts he couldn't escape.
"We could try counting sheep," Marcus suggested, chuckling softly. "Or I could recite fire codes until we both pass out."
"The complete NFPA standards? Tempting." I pushed up onto one elbow, needing a little more space to breathe.
Marcus propped himself up, studying me with that careful attention he brought to unstable structures. "What do you need?"
The question caught me off guard. People didn't usually ask—they expected me to analyze and maintain professional distance. Marcus had a way of dismantling my defenses without seeming to try.
"I need..." I paused, trying to choose the right words. How could I explain that I needed both space and proximity? That my brain wouldn't stop calculating, but his presence was the only thing keeping me from disappearing into those equations?
He waited, giving me room to continue. When the words didn't materialize, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress dipped as he stood, muscles shifting beneath scarred skin. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Living room. I've got something that might help."
I followed him through the dark apartment, noting how he navigated the space without hesitation—no bumped shins or stubbed toes. He'd imprinted the layout into his muscle memory.
Marcus stepped up to a shelf near his old-fashioned stereo system, fingers trailing over album spines with deliberate care. His touch was reverent. When he pulled one free, the paper sleeve whispered against the vinyl.
The record Marcus selected wasn't what I expected. Not Springsteen's arena-filling anthems or the jazz I played in my apartment. Instead, sparse acoustic guitar filled the space—Johnny Cash's American Recordings. The raw honesty in that aging voice hit somewhere beneath my ribs.
"Found this in Dad's locker after..." Marcus settled onto the couch, leaving space beside him—an invitation rather than an expectation. "The chief handed me a box of his things. This was still in his ancient Walkman. Last thing he listened to. I bought it on vinyl for a more permanent memory."
"Do you play it often?"
"Only when things get too quiet in my head." He touched my knee beneath the blanket he'd draped over us, thumb tracing absent patterns against the fabric of my borrowed sweats. "When I need to remember, I'm not the only person who's seen the darker side of things."
Cash's voice resonated through the room, singing about redemption, rivers, and men who'd lost their way. The raw simplicity raised a lump in my throat.
"Tell me about your father," I requested quietly. "Not the firefighter everyone saw. I want to know more about the man who listened to Johnny Cash on night shifts."
Marcus's fingers lightly gripped my knee, and for a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far. Then, he exhaled, long and slow.
"He hummed when he cooked," Marcus leaned his head back. "Not well—couldn't carry a tune to save his life. Still, every Sunday, he'd make these massive pots of sauce that took hours, and he'd hum or even sing softly. It drove Ma crazy, especially when he got the lyrics wrong."
The confession was weighty as if Marcus was offering pieces of himself that he rarely shared. I shifted closer, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice.
"Your brothers never mention that part."
"No." His thumb resumed its pattern against my knee. "We all remember different pieces. Michael fixates on the tactical stuff—how Dad approached every scene with his commanding presence. Matt talks about his patience with rookies. And Miles..." He swallowed. "Miles was too young to remember much beyond impressions."
Cash's voice faded into the silence between tracks. In that pause, Marcus exhaled—so soft I might have missed it if I hadn't been concentrating on every detail about him.
"What else?" I prompted softly.
"He collected broken things." Marcus turned his head to look at me. "Not only records or old electronics. He'd bring home injured birds and stray cats, or kids who needed somewhere safe. Our house was like... this sanctuary for anything that was a little bit damaged."
The implications settled between us. I thought about how Marcus had picked me up while my apartment burned, and he brought me to his home without hesitation.
"Sometimes I think grief is just performance art." Marcus's was suddenly edgier than usual. He stared at his hands, fingers flexing. "Everyone watches, waiting to see if you'll break."
I shifted, angling to see his face better in the dim light of the room. "What do you mean?"
"After Dad died..." He exhaled slowly. "Everyone kept saying how strong I was. How well I was handling it. The captain, my crew, and even my brothers agreed, but I wasn't handling anything. I was... performing. Being what they needed me to be."
Cash's voice faded to silence, the record's soft pops and crackles underlining Marcus's words.
"I'd get up at four, swim until my arms gave out, then go to work and run into every fire like I had something to prove. At the end of the day, I'd come home, take care of Ma, and ensure Miles did his homework. Keep moving, keep pushing, keep..." I paused. "Keep pretending I deserved to be alive when he wasn't."
It was another confession, this one even heavier. I suddenly understood why he pushed himself so hard in training and why every race became a test of his limits. He wasn't chasing endorphins or personal bests. He was trying to outrun ghosts.
"Twelve years," he said quietly. "And I'm still performing. Still trying to be the son he'd be proud of. The brother who holds everything together. The firefighter who never hesitates."
I gripped his wrist, fingers pressing against his pulse. "You don't have to perform for me."
I rested my head on Marcus's chest, listening to his beating heart.
"I was eight when I learned about patterns." The words emerged from me unprompted. "My parents sent me to this summer camp in Vermont. It was one of those character-building experiences for awkward kids who read too much."
Marcus shifted, his attention sharpening though he didn't interrupt.
"First night, I woke up completely disoriented. The cabin was pitch black—no streetlights and no ambient glow from the city. There was…" I swallowed against the memory. "Nothing. I couldn't tell whether my eyes were open or closed. I couldn't find the edges of myself in all that dark."
"What happened?"
"I panicked. Started screaming. Woke up half the cabin." I snickered slightly. "The counselor told me I was being dramatic. He said the fear was all in my head, but it wasn't really the dark that terrified me—it was that sensation of disappearing. Of not being able to orient myself in space."
Marcus's hand covered mine where it still rested on his wrist. The contact grounded me.
"After that, I started watching people. Analyzing how they moved and what those patterns revealed. I figured if I could read everyone else clearly enough, I'd never feel that lost again." I looked into his eyes. "Never thought I'd end up using those skills to track someone who turns destruction into art."
"We all have our ways of fighting back against chaos." Marcus spoke the words against my temple, his breath stirring my hair. "You analyze. I swim laps until my shoulders burn."
The record had ended, leaving only the soft clicks of the needle against empty grooves. Neither of us moved to change it. We'd earned the silence.
My body finally started to relax despite my racing mind, quieted by Marcus's steady warmth and the weight of the blanket across our legs. The wool had traces of wood smoke—not the acrid chemical stench from my apartment fire, but something older and almost comforting.
"Why do you let me see this much of you?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could examine it too closely.
His chest rose and fell against my back in a slow breath. "Because you look at everything like it's evidence, but you never make me feel like you're dissecting me." His arms tightened around my body. "And because you understand what it means to be haunted by patterns."
I turned, pressing my face into the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat strong and steady. His skin was warm, alive, and present—everything my analytical mind needed to believe the moment was real.
"Try to sleep," he murmured, one hand coming up to rake through my hair.
For once, I didn't argue. I didn't try to calculate odds or analyze patterns. I let myself sink into the shelter of his body, listening to the soft rain against the windows and the steady sound of his breathing.
Sleep crept closer. Marcus's fingers continued their slow path through my hair, each stroke methodical like he was memorizing the texture. His other hand rested against my ribs.
"You're still thinking," Marcus murmured. "I hear your brain working."
"Force of habit." I traced the scar on his forearm where it crossed my chest—a raised line from some long-ago fire. "But it's quieter now."
He exhaled. "Progress."
Tomorrow would bring new threats, more evidence to analyze, and the weight of whatever Elliot had planned. But here, wrapped in the warmth and the trust we'd built between us, I surrendered to exhaustion.
Marcus's breathing deepened, his hand resting in my hair as sleep finally claimed him. I listened to his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my ear, and let it carry me under. I wasn't disappearing. I wasn't unraveling into the dark. The heartbeat was a solid anchor, giving me permission to let myself drift.
My last conscious thought wasn't about burn patterns, chemical accelerants, or the precise temperature required to transform evidence into ash.
It was simply this: I was home.