Page 6 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter four

Dorian

T he blanket tangled around my legs was wrong—wool, not synthetic; too soft, too clean. Hand-knitted, with irregular patterns where someone's attention had momentarily faltered.

I didn't open my eyes immediately. That would be a rookie mistake. Instead, I focused on what my other senses revealed. Traces of antiseptic, cedar, and spice drifted in the air. The latter were male scents, not institutional.

A dull ache spread through my ribs, held slightly at bay by tightly wrapped bandages. Sutures pulled with each breath, but the heat of infection hadn't settled in. Not yet. I'd survived worse.

Unified memories coalesced out of fragments. The hospital escape. The rain. The doorway where I'd nearly collapsed.

McCabe. Matthew.

I opened my eyes and gazed at a ceiling of exposed ductwork and industrial beams. It was a warehouse conversion—tall windows with metal frames.

A morning glow filtered through wooden blinds, casting ladder-like shadows across the brick walls and hardwood floor. The worn leather couch beneath me creaked with every move.

Raising my head slightly, I spotted an exit door, heavy with multiple locks. No obvious cameras. No monitoring equipment. No weapons visible.

The absence of immediate danger unsettled me more than waking in restraints would have. There was always a cost—if not now, then later.

I tried to push myself upright and failed as my body reminded me how far I'd pushed it. Three tries later, I managed to prop myself against the armrest, sweating from the effort.

Then, I heard him.

Footsteps approached from around a corner—unhurried, bare feet slapping against hardwood. I didn't sense any attempt at stealth. It was a man walking through his home.

Matthew appeared, carrying a steaming ceramic mug. He raked his free hand through dark hair still damp from a shower. He wore a soft black t-shirt that had seen better days and flannel pajama pants hanging loose at his hips.

He had a powerful build—broad shoulders filling the shirt and veiny forearms. A faint, pale scar marked his jawline, catching light when he turned his head.

When he realized my eyes were open, he paused. He didn't appear surprised.

"You're awake. I made tea. Soothing. Coffee's probably a little too much."

I studied his face, searching for signs of deception. "Thanks." I didn't reach for the mug yet. Accepting things from strangers was how you ended up unconscious. Or worse.

He set the mug on the coffee table and sat opposite me in a matching leather chair. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his hands hang loose between them.

The questions would start soon. Demands and accusations would be close behind.

I counted seconds in my head, waiting.

Matthew sat there, watching me with quiet attention. It wasn't the aggressive stare of an interrogator. He was only looking.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

He finally broke the silence with an unexpected question. "How's the pain?"

It wasn't who shot you, or why did you come to my apartment. It was only concern about my physical condition.

I swallowed hard. "Manageable."

"What should I call you?" he asked after another stretch of silence.

I considered fabricating something—John, David, Alex. Generic enough to be forgettable. He'd already saved my life twice. "Dorian" slipped out before I could stop it.

"I'm Matthew. You probably figured that out."

"Your uniform," I confirmed, remembering the patch sewn above the breast pocket. M. McCabe, SFD.

"Right. EMT for three years. Combat medic before that."

"Afghanistan?" I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew. The organization of his apartment and how he constantly scanned the space around him were clues.

"Yeah. Two tours."

I filed the information away in my head along with everything else I'd learned about Matthew McCabe.

Matthew leaned forward. "You slept nearly twenty-four hours, and you're running warm. Could be nothing, but I'd like to see."

I lifted my arm slightly, sending ripples of throbbing pain across my torso. The blanket slipped down, and the shirt rode up, exposing the white gauze wrapped tight around my ribs.

Matthew moved from the chair to the edge of the couch. His proximity triggered warning signals in my brain. My instincts told me to maintain distance and anticipate harm.

Digging my fingers into the couch, I forced myself to remain still as he touched the edge of the tape securing the bandage.

"This might pull a bit," he warned.

The gauze peeled away with a soft, tearing sound. Air hit the exposed skin, sending a shiver across my shoulders. Matthew's touch was cool against my fever-warm flesh, methodical as he removed the dressing layer by layer. He didn't probe unnecessarily. His examination was practiced and efficient.

The final layer came away, exposing the neat row of stitches he'd sewn. The wound looked angry but clean—no yellow drainage or excessive swelling, and no red streaks racing toward my heart.

He shared his assessment in one word, "Good." Then, he added, "No signs of infection yet."

His first aid kit lay on the coffee table, and he pulled out antibiotic ointment and fresh gauze. The medicinal smell filled my nose as he applied it with gentle pressure around the sutures, his palm spanning my ribs to stabilize the area as he worked. His hand was warm and solid.

I closed my eyes.

The weight of Matthew's hands reminded me I was real.

My pulse slowed, and my breaths deepened. The vigilance I'd maintained for months—the constant readiness that had kept me alive—began to dissolve under his touch. My body was betraying years of training, surrendering to safety when every lesson I'd learned screamed that safety was an illusion.

"Whoever did this..." Matthew's voice dropped lower. "Precise."

I opened my eyes and watched him studying the older scars scattered across my torso—an old knife wound near my collarbone, burn marks along my side, and thin white lines where other stitches had been.

Matthew looked into my eyes. I'd been assessed countless times—by doctors checking damage, handlers calculating usefulness, and enemies measuring weakness. He wasn't like any of those. He saw only me.

No one had looked at me like that in years. Maybe ever.

He returned to the task at hand, carefully wrapping fresh gauze just below my ribs. His knuckles grazed my chest as he secured the end of the bandage. The accidental contact sent a spreading electrical charge across my skin.

Our eyes met briefly, and then Matthew shifted his attention, clearing his throat.

"Better?"

I nodded.

Finished with the bandaging, he didn't immediately move away. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but I should know if someone will come looking for you."

It was a reasonable question. The truth was something I couldn't yet share, even with someone who'd saved my life twice now.

I offered a cautious answer. "Not immediately. They think I'm gone."

"Gone as in left town, or gone as in dead?"

"The second one," I smirked slightly. "Works better that way."

Matthew absorbed the information without a visible reaction. His eyes didn't widen. He merely nodded to indicate he'd heard me.

"Alright." That was it—no demand for more, and no threat to call the authorities.

I couldn't quite process his quiet comfort with the situation.

No one gave shelter without demanding compensation.

No one bandaged wounds without requiring something in return.

The world ran on trade—shelter for secrets, kindness for leverage.

Genuine altruism was just a bedtime story for the lucky.

Still, there he was, staring at me. Matthew McCabe, a combat veteran and first responder, treated my injuries without requiring explanation. I could practically smell danger. His actions disrupted all of my defensive calculations.

A question overwhelmed my thoughts. "Why are you helping me?"

He rubbed the side of his jaw. "You needed it."

"That's not how this works. People don't just—"

"Help?" He raised an eyebrow. "Some do."

I didn't believe that. Not really.

"What do you want?"

"Not everything has a price tag, Dorian." That line—so simple, so sure—rattled in my brain like loose change in a jar.

I didn't answer. But in my head, the math still didn't work. I kept looking for the hidden variable—the part where this turned on me.

Matthew stood. He spoke quietly. "Think what you need to, but you're safe here for now."

He reached for the mug of tea on the coffee table. Steam no longer rose from the surface, but when he wrapped his palm around it, his nod confirmed warmth remained.

"It's still good." He held it out for me.

I hesitated only briefly before accepting it. My hands cupped the mug without checking for poison, testing the rim for residue, or checking my escape routes in case it contained a sedative.

"When I was a kid, my mother would cup a hot mug in both hands just like this. She always said tea was a way to calm your hands before your heart."

Matthew retreated a few steps, giving me space. "Your mother was a wise woman."

I'd spent years in crowded safehouses and compressed surveillance vans, my body pressed against strangers by necessity rather than choice. I'd given up the concept of personal space long ago.

The tea tasted of bergamot and honey—Earl Grey with something added to soothe the throat. I cradled the mug between both hands. The remaining warmth seeped into my fingers, up my wrists, and spread comfort across my chest.

Matthew moved to the window, glancing out and then looking back at me. His posture remained relaxed. No tension or impatience. Only quiet presence.

He didn't say anything as I sipped the tea. I tracked his movement while he padded barefoot across the hardwood floor.

He walked to the kitchen without looking back, turning on the faucet. I heard him rinsing his hands, mixed with the faint clinking of metal, as he cleaned the first aid supplies.

From the couch, I had a clear view of his space. Sparse, but not sterile. A floor lamp cast warm amber light, and an old TV rested on stacked crates—no obvious weapons.

Three mugs sat on the drain board—plain, functional, one stamped with a Seattle Fire Department logo. The fridge was covered in reminders and takeout magnets, mostly Asian cuisine.

Only one photo was visible—four men on a beach, squinting into the sun, all grinning. Matthew was one of them, younger, clean-shaven. The others looked like they could carry a couch without help.

What stood out more was the absence: no couple photos. No partner's belongings.

There was no edge to Matthew's movements. He rinsed a pair of tweezers, dried them, and set them in a drawer that he closed with a soft click.

There's nothing more disorienting than a man who doesn't try to fill the quiet with dominance or small talk. Nothing more dangerous than someone who doesn't need to explain themselves.

When he returned, he didn't reclaim the chair. He stood near the coffee table and looked down at me. "You don't have to stay long, but if you want to rest, this is a place where you can do that."

I looked down at the tea mug cupped in my hands. Rest. That word no longer existed in my vocabulary.

I'd been trained to read people—identify micro-expressions and behavioral patterns, allowing me to predict actions. Matthew defied easy categorization. I couldn't read an agenda in his simple kindness.

I knew how to fight threats and outmaneuver pursuers. Conditioning gave me the tools to withstand pain and overcome fear.

This situation was different. I had no defense against someone who looked at my broken edges and didn't immediately calculate their usefulness.

I sipped the tea, letting the warmth fill my chest. For the first time in years, I was utterly unprepared for what might come next.