I met his gaze. "Yeah. I could eat."
He nodded, unfolding himself from the couch. "Good. Then let's eat."
Marcus moved toward the kitchen, stretching his arms over his head before rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the day. I followed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet and the scent of the slow-roasting lamb wrapping around my head. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, uncorking it with a practiced flick of his wrist while I peered into the oven, blinking against the rush of heat.
The roast had caramelized beautifully, the crust seared dark where the garlic and herbs had crisped against the surface. I tested a piece with the edge of a fork. It gave way easily, juices pooling at the bottom of the pan. Perfect.
"A year ago," I mused, setting the fork down, "you lived on protein bars and takeout."
Marcus poured two glasses of wine. "I still live on protein bars and takeout. You're the one who insists on making real food."
I took the offered glass, swirling the deep red liquid against the sides. "Because I enjoy not getting scurvy."
Marcus leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his glass. "What else was I doing a year ago?"
I took a slow sip, letting the wine settle before answering. "Carrying the weight of an entire firehouse on your back. Taking reckless chances because you thought you had to. Telling yourself that keeping your distance from people would somehow make losing them hurt less."
His smirk faded. "You gonna keep going, or was that enough of a punch to the ribs?"
I set my glass down. "You asked."
Marcus exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. I did."
I leaned against the opposite counter, feeling the warmth of the oven against my calves. "You ever think about him?"
I didn't have to say his name.
Marcus's jaw shifted. He took another sip of wine, slow and deliberate, before carefully setting his glass down. "Less than I used to. More than I want to."
I nodded, waiting.
He flexed his fingers against the countertop. "You?"
I stared into the wine, watching the way the light caught the surface. "Yeah."
The thing about Elliot Raines was that he had never needed to be in the room to make his presence known. He existed in the echoes of warped memories of burning buildings. He had lost, but theideaof him—the ideology he had built, plus the people who had believed in him—still lingered.
I hadn't checked the latest reports in months. At least, not in the way I used to, when I'd wake up at two in the morning, scrolling through databases and searching for patterns. Still, now and then, when I thought about the Pyreborn Covenant and the ones never caught, I wondered if I had really left it behind.
Marcus reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, where they rested against the counter. The touch was brief butsolid.
"You're not still chasing it," he said, quiet but firm.
It wasn't a question.
I shook my head. "No. Just… making sure it doesn't chase me."
He watched me for a beat longer, then nodded. "Fair enough."
Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the window in an uneven rhythm. The fireplace in the living room crackled with the music still humming low beneath it all.
Marcus tapped his knuckles against the counter. "You gonna help me carve this thing, or are you gonna keep standing there, looking dramatic?"
I laughed softly, pushing off the counter to grab a knife. "For that remark, you're doing the dishes."
He groaned, but there was warmth behind it. "I walked into that, didn't I?"
"Oh, yeah."
