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'sAmerican 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."
