"When all I want is to keep you safe. When I can't look at a single piece of evidence without imagining—" The words shattered as memories of the Harrison case superimposed themselves over Marcus's face.
I spoke again through tears. "I see burn patterns in my sleep. Calculate flash points and accelerant dispersal rates like counting sheep. And now every scenario ends with you."
The rain drove harder, full of the acrid stench of burnt metal and dissolved chemicals. Somewhere in the warehouse's gutted remains, water dripped with metronomic precision, marking seconds I couldn't afford to waste on wanting.
"The lab will need these paper samples." I retreated behind procedure, though my hands still trembled. "The accelerant composition might help identify—"
"You think pushing me away keeps me safer?" The question hit hard. "You think professional distance protects anyone?"
"It keeps me functional. Keeps me focused on the evidence instead of—" Instead of how rain ran down the column of his throat.
A burst of radio traffic made me flinch. Sarah's voice cut through the static, requesting an evidence review. The familiar protocol was my lifeline.
"I need to get these to the lab. The handwriting analysis might help narrow down—"
Marcus caught my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "Running doesn't make the feelings go away, James. Trust me—I've tried."
The simple honesty in his voice threatened to undo me completely. I pulled free, gathering the evidence bags. "I can't—" The words stuck in my throat. "I need to be Dr. Reynolds right now. Need to be the one who sees patterns and follows protocols and doesn't—"
"Doesn't what?"
"Doesn't imagine what your skin tastes like when it's not raining." The truth spilled out of my mouth. "I need to stop him. And I can't do that if I'm drowning in how much I want—" I gestured helplessly between us.
Thunder rolled overhead. Marcus watched me with an expression that made my chest ache. "This isn't over."
"I know." I clutched the evidence bags like armor. "But right now, I need to focus on keeping you alive."
He nodded once, though his eyes remained warm and inviting. "Send the initial results directly to me."
"I will." I stepped back, letting the driving rain fill the space between us.
Walking away took more strength than facing any crime scene. The rain beat down in relentless sheets, drumming against myskin, against the evidence bags in my grip, and against Marcus, still standing exactly where I left him.
I didn't look back.I didn't have to.I could still feel him—the heat of him, the weight of his hands, and the space where he had been.
The evidence in my hands held a madman's observations of the man I couldn't let myself have. Tomorrow, I would force myself to read them with clinical distance to find the patterns that might keep Marcus breathing.
Tonight, I would try to forget how perfectly we fit together in the rain's embrace and pray that keeping him safe was worth the cost of letting him go.
Chapter seven
Marcus
My shoulders burned with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that made every turnout coat buckle feel like it weighed fifty pounds. The fabric caught against my sweat-damp shirt as I adjusted my SCBA straps, each movement a negotiation between discipline and exhaustion.
"Looking a little rough there, Lieutenant." Peterson's voice carried across the apparatus bay, tinged with a mix of respect and concern that made me want to stand straighter. "Maybe we should postpone the drill—"
"We run it as scheduled." I kept my tone firm despite the protest in my ribs. Four weeks of relentless triathlon training had carved new hollows beneath my eyes, but the planned drill was about more than physical conditioning. It would test our team's cohesion under stress—something we couldn't afford to neglect with an arsonist studying our every move.
The training tower loomed against the station's back lot, its concrete walls scarred from countless exercises. Seattle's notorious drizzle had settled into a fine mist that beaded on ourgear and made the metal stairs treacherous—perfect conditions for testing our limits.
"Remember," I said, watching my crew check their equipment with practiced efficiency, "we're working blind on this one—full gear, full protocol, just like a real structure fire. Barrett, you're with Rivera on search and rescue. Peterson, you've got point on ventilation."
My hands moved through the familiar gear check sequence—straps, gauges, radio check. The ritual usually centered on me, but something was off. Not wrong, necessarily, just... different. Like the weight sat wrong against my shoulders or the mask seal didn't quite match my face's contours.
I blamed my fatigue. Three hours of pre-dawn swimming followed by a full shift had left me operating on fumes and stubbornness. Still, we needed the drill. We needed to stay sharp when every fire scene could be another twisted art installation designed to test our limits.
"Course is set," Captain Walsh called down from the tower's third level. "Smoke machines are hot, and we've got some interesting obstacles rigged for you." Our captain's grim smile said he'd designed this one to push us. "Show me what you've got, McCabe."
