The raw concern in his voice hit harder than any of the threatening letters. My hand moved to cup his jaw, needing him to understand. "Then we use that. His obsession with perfection makes him predictable. You're already seeing his patterns, James. Help me stay ahead of them."
The words settled into the late-night quiet. Neither of us moved, caught in the weight of the revelation. My hand had found its way to his back again, my fingers pressing against the warmth beneath his sweater.
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into the touch, slightly, enough that I noticed.
"We've got time," I murmured, my voice softer. "We've got your insight, the whole team—"
"He's been watching you for years." James’s voice was almost a whisper, but the weight of it settled in my chest. "Learning your patterns, your limits. How you push through pain, and how you train…" His fingers rested on my chest, right above my heart. "Everything that drives you, he's turning into his art."
His palm was warm, pressing against the steady rhythm of my pulse. I exhaled, slow and measured, as if trying to will him into that same steadiness. He didn’t move away. Neither did I.
"James," I said, barely more than a breath. "Look at me."
His eyes lifted, dark and searching, stripping away every practiced layer of distance I’d ever seen him wear.
"I can’t watch you become his gallery piece." His voice cracked on the last words, and his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt. "Can't lose someone else because I missed the signs."
The space between us disappeared by inches. His breath, uneven, skimmed my jaw, and I—I knew—that if I leaned in, if I just—
The radio's sudden burst of static made us both jump. "Engine 17, Battalion 3, respond. Reported structure fire, 1800 block Harrison Street." The dispatcher's voice echoed around the incident room, shattering our moment.
We broke apart as emergency tones sounded through the station. Down the hall, the night crew's boots thundered against concrete. The familiar controlled chaos of a call response pulled me back to duty and discipline.
"Harrison Street." James's voice was tense. "That's where—"
"The coffee shop on my recovery route." The realization hit as I reached for my turnout gear.
"Marcus." His hand caught my arm. "This is part of his performance. He's escalating, pushing for a reaction."
"Then we don't give him one." I squeezed his shoulder, already moving toward the apparatus bay. "Document everything. Look for his signature elements."
"Be careful." The words followed me into the hall. "Please."
The cold night air clawed at my skin as I stepped onto the apparatus floor. I flexed my fingers against the weight of my gear, trying to shake off the sensation of James’s hand stillpressed against my chest, his words still scraping against my ribs.
"I can’t lose someone else."
The station doors groaned open, revealing a city wrapped in midnight stillness. Somewhere out there, flames licked at brick and steel, chewing through the night, waiting for me to step into their light.
Three weeks. That’s all we had.
Three weeks until the arsonist finished what he started.
I climbed into the engine, bracing against the rumble as the sirens split the night. My breath was shallow, adrenaline already burning through my veins.
James was still inside, examining crime scene photos, looking for answers buried in soot and bone. He was trying to crack the pattern before it cracked me.
And we both knew the truth.
He’d spent years studying me—watching me sweat, push, and bleed. He'd been there taking notes through every training run and every time I pushed past my limits.
And now he wanted to see me burn.
I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around my gear straps as the engine lurched forward. The station blurred behind us, swallowed by the dark. Ahead, the fire was waiting.
So was he.
I wasn’t sure which would get to me first.
