Chapter 13 Push Away
For Your Safety
The file on the table looked worse every time Gideon read it.
He had spent most of the afternoon at the station going through copies of the old warehouse records with Elena Shaw and Paul Harker. What they had uncovered was no longer a collection of strange gaps and missing entries. It was a pattern.
The contractor connected to the tattoo in Nico’s photograph had worked on South Harbor Warehouse three weeks before the fire.
His company had also handled electrical and safety installations at two other properties owned by the same development group.
One of those properties had recently received a city contract for renovations.
The connection should have been useful.
Instead, Gideon could barely breathe.
He sat alone at the station long after the others had left the table. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the building, a locker door slammed shut, followed by the low murmur of voices from the kitchen.
Six years earlier, he had heard sounds like that before everything changed.
Metal striking metal.
Boots against concrete.
Someone shouting through smoke.
The memory came without warning, sharp enough to make his shoulders tighten.
Gideon closed his eyes.
He could see the warehouse again.
He could feel the heat against his face. He could smell burning insulation and chemicals. He could hear the radio traffic breaking apart beneath the alarms. He could hear the evacuation order.
And beneath all of it, he could hear Marcus.
Gideon opened his eyes and stared at the report.
He had spent years believing the worst thing that happened that night was that he went back inside.
Now there was another possibility.
Someone had created the conditions that made the fire deadly.
Someone had interfered with the safety systems.
Someone had altered records.
Someone had decided that the people inside that building were acceptable losses.
And now those people might still have access to buildings, projects, contractors, permits, records, and people.
Gideon's stomach tightened.
Nico.
The thought arrived with such force that Gideon pushed back from the table.
He stood and walked to the window.
Across the street, Reyes Ink was still lit.
Through the glass, he could see Nico moving around the studio. He was cleaning one of the workstations, sleeves pushed up his forearms, dark hair falling across his forehead. He paused to speak with Mateo before returning to the counter.
Ordinary.
Safe.
Alive.
Gideon watched him and felt something inside his chest begin to fracture.
That was the problem.
Nico was becoming part of his life.
Not an attraction he could dismiss. Not a man he could keep at a comfortable distance. Not someone he could tell himself was temporary.
Nico had become the person Gideon looked for when he entered a room.
The person he wanted to call after a difficult shift.
The person whose hand he had learned to trust against his scars.
The person whose presence had started making the nights quieter.
And now someone connected to the old fire knew they were looking.
Gideon reached for his phone.
There was a message from Nico.
You coming over tonight? I saved you coffee.
Gideon stared at the words.
His first instinct was to cross the street.
His second was to tell Nico everything.
His third was the one that won.
Can't tonight. Long shift.
He typed the message, deleted it, then typed it again.
Finally, he sent it.
Almost immediately, three dots appeared.
Okay. Tomorrow?
Gideon didn't answer.
He put the phone face down.
He told himself he was protecting Nico.
The lie felt reasonable for about thirty seconds.
Then it felt unbearable.
He returned to the report.
The contractor's name was Calder & Voss Construction. The company had changed ownership twice since the warehouse fire, but several senior employees had remained. One of them was still listed as a project consultant on current developments.
That meant the past had not stayed buried.
It had changed names.
It had moved addresses.
It had continued making money.
Gideon's hand tightened around the edge of the table.
He remembered Marcus lying beneath the collapsed section of roof.
He remembered reaching for him.
He remembered Marcus telling him to get out.
He remembered refusing.
Then the building had come down.
For six years, Gideon had carried one thought through every nightmare.
I went back.
Now another thought joined it.
I brought this to Nico.
He knew that was not entirely true.
Nico had found the photograph.
Nico had identified the tattoo.
Nico had given them the lead.
But Gideon could not separate those facts from the terror growing inside him.
If Nico had never met him, he would never have been involved.
If Nico had never looked at his scars without pity, he would never have cared about Gideon.
If Gideon had kept walking past that studio instead of crossing the street, Nico would still be safe.
The logic was simple.
Painfully simple.
Gideon knew enough about trauma to recognize when his mind was looking for control where none existed. He knew enough about himself to know that recognition did not mean he could stop it.
He stood and grabbed his jacket.
Across the street, Nico turned off one of the studio lights.
Gideon almost went to him.
Instead, he walked toward the station exit.
His phone vibrated.
Goodnight, firefighter.
Gideon stopped.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He could picture Nico saying it, that slight smile in his voice. He could picture the studio. The chair where Nico had examined his scars. The counter where they had shared coffee. The exact place where Gideon had first touched his face.
He wanted to turn around.
He wanted to cross the street.
He wanted to tell Nico that he was scared.
Instead, he put the phone away.
The next morning, Gideon arrived early.
He worked until his hands hurt.
He checked equipment that did not need checking. He inspected hoses, reviewed procedures, reorganized gear, and volunteered for tasks other firefighters had already completed. Every movement gave him something to focus on.
Owen watched him for most of the morning.
"You look like you didn't sleep."
"I slept."
"That's not what I said."
Gideon kept working.
Owen leaned against the equipment cabinet. "Something happen?"
"No."
"You're lying."
Gideon finally looked at him.
Owen did not push further. He only studied Gideon's face with the quiet understanding of someone who had already learned how difficult Gideon could be when cornered.
"Whatever it is," Owen said, "don't make a permanent decision while you're scared."
Gideon's jaw tightened.
"I'm not scared."
Owen's expression barely changed.
"Sure."
Gideon walked away.
By noon, Nico had crossed the street.
He found Gideon near the apparatus bay, checking the same compartment for the third time.
"You've been avoiding me."
Gideon looked up.
Nico stood several feet away, hands in his jacket pockets. He did not come closer.
That small detail made the guilt worse.
"I'm busy."
"You've been busy for three days."
Gideon said nothing.
Nico watched him carefully. "Did something happen with the investigation?"
"No."
"Then what happened?"
"Nothing."
Nico's eyes narrowed.
Gideon knew that look. Nico had never been easily distracted by excuses.
"We need to keep some distance," Gideon said.
The words tasted wrong.
Nico went still.
"Why?"
"Because this is getting dangerous."
"The investigation?"
"Everything."
Nico waited.
Gideon forced himself to continue.
"You shouldn't be involved anymore."
"I've heard this before."
"This time I'm serious."
"So am I."
Gideon stepped closer, then stopped himself.
He wanted to touch Nico.
He wanted to pull him close and bury his face against his shoulder. He wanted to tell him that every instinct inside him was screaming that Nico was too important to lose.
Instead, he made his voice cold.
"You don't understand what these people are capable of."
Nico's expression hardened.
"Then explain it."
"I can't."
"Because you don't know, or because you don't trust me enough to tell me?"
Gideon looked away.
Neither answer was acceptable.
He could not tell Nico that every time he imagined a threat, he saw Marcus instead.
He could not explain that his mind had already created a dozen ways for Nico to die.
He could not admit that the thought of loving someone had become tangled with the certainty that love would eventually give him another body to carry out of a burning building.
So he chose the only thing that felt controllable.
Distance.
"You need to stay away from me."
Nico stared at him.
For one terrible second, Gideon thought Nico might argue.
Instead, Nico said quietly, "Is that what you want?"
Gideon's chest tightened.
"No."
The answer escaped before he could stop it.
Nico's eyes softened for half a second.
Then Gideon forced himself to say the words that hurt more.
"It's what needs to happen."
Nico looked at him for a long moment.
"Those aren't the same thing."
Gideon could not answer.
Nico stepped back.
"I'll give you space," he said. "But don't confuse space with permission to decide what I feel."
Then he turned and walked away.
Gideon watched him leave.
Every part of him wanted to follow.
He stayed where he was.
That night, he went home and opened the closet.
A small duffel bag sat on the top shelf.
Gideon pulled it down.
He began packing.
There was no plan yet. No destination. No station transfer request submitted. He could figure those things out later.
For now, he folded clothes.
One shirt.
Two.
Three.
He packed his boots, toiletries, a few books he rarely read, and the old photograph of Marcus he kept hidden in a drawer.
Then he stopped.
His phone was on the bed.
Nico's name was still near the top of the screen.
Gideon sat beside the bag.
He remembered Nico's hand resting against his scar.
He remembered the first kiss.
He remembered waking beside him.
He remembered what it had felt like to believe, even briefly, that happiness might belong to him.
Gideon pressed both hands against his face.
He had survived the warehouse.