Page 7 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter five

Matthew

T he tea kettle's whistle pierced the quiet in my apartment. I killed the heat before the sound could jar Dorian awake. It was the second morning after his arrival turned my world upside down.

My ancient Frigidaire grumbled behind me while I poured the steaming water into waiting mugs with tea bags. Earl Grey again.

When I turned toward the living room, mugs in hand, I saw that my guest was awake. He'd managed to push himself upright in the couch's corner. He tracked my approach with eyes that missed nothing.

I placed his mug on the side table, within easy reach. With my tea in hand, I settled into the leather chair across from him, letting my free hand settle into my lap.

Neither of us spoke.

Familiar morning sounds surrounded us—pipes ticking as metal contracted, and Mrs. Kaminski's television providing distant commentary from upstairs.

One of Dorian's hands rested against his bandaged ribs. He ignored the tea altogether. I watched him as he closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath. It caused him to wince.

I reached for my phone and tapped open my old Bluetooth speaker. Something low and pulsing began to play—Robyn's "Dancing On My Own . " I hadn't meant to pick it. It must've been last on my queue, but it was a little depressing. I started to skip it.

Before I could, Dorian stopped me.

"Leave it."

His eyes were still closed, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable.

"You… like this one?"

"It's clean. Tempo doesn't drift. Helps me regulate."

"That's not what most people mean when they say they like a song."

"Most people haven't been stitched up on five hours' sleep and less than a pint of blood."

"Fair."

I let the track keep playing. The beat pulsed softly through the apartment, and Dorian didn't say another word. The tension in his jaw eased like something in him vibrated in sync with the song.

When I spoke, it was to the window instead of directly to Dorian. My voice was quiet.

"There was a guy. Interpreter. His name was Farid."

Dorian shifted slightly and opened his eyes.

I returned to my chair and set my mug on the coffee table, rubbing my palms against the rough denim covering my thighs. "Young. Maybe twenty-three. Spoke three languages—Pashto, Dari, and English. Sometimes, he mixed all three when he got excited about something."

The words clarified the memory in my mind: Farid laughed as he translated insults between our squad and a group of local kids, his oversized Manchester United jersey flapping in the desert wind.

"He read terrain like most people read street signs. Could spot disturbed earth from two hundred meters by how the shadows fell wrong."

I glanced at Dorian. He followed my words closely, but there was no judgment in his expression. "Saved my life during a convoy ambush. Grabbed my vest and hauled me behind concrete maybe three seconds before everything exploded."

My throat tightened. "Reminded me of my dad, actually—same instincts. Dad was Seattle Fire—twenty-two years on the job. Used to say he could smell trouble before the alarm even sounded."

I picked at a loose thread on my jeans, not meeting Dorian's eyes. "He ran toward burning buildings the way most people run away from them. For him, it was the most natural thing in the world."

Ghosts drifted around me. "Lost him in a warehouse fire when I was a teenager."

Dorian mainly was still, but his head pushed slightly forward. He continued to pay close attention.

"Farid had that same thing. That instinct to step toward danger, particularly if it meant protecting someone else.

" My voice turned raspy, still wrapped in morning's rough edges.

"When my ears stopped ringing after the ambush and I could think again, I told him he'd saved my ass.

He grinned and said, 'You'd do the same.

' Same thing Dad used to say when Ma worried about him going to work each day. "

Dorian's eyes were steady, watchful.

"Problem was," I continued, "when his turn came, I couldn't return the favor."

My breath hitched.

"I was supposed to be the one with medical training.

I was supposed to know how to fix people and keep them breathing until help arrived.

" My hands trembled, so I pressed them flat against my thighs.

"Training doesn't mean shit when someone you care about is bleeding out and there's nothing you can do but watch it happen. "

The weight of both losses filled my thoughts—Dad dying while I sat in algebra class, completely useless; Farid dying while I tried everything I knew, and it still wasn't enough.

"Different IED three weeks later. Different road, same result. I worked on him for thirty minutes—compressions, pressure bandages, trying to plug holes that wouldn't stop bleeding. He died trying to tell me something in Pashto I couldn't understand."

Dorian wasn't merely listening. He focused on me and absorbed every detail.

"Sorry. Probably more than you needed to hear."

"No." His response was immediate. "Thank you for telling me." He paused. "They sound like people worth remembering. And training teaches you to save bodies. It doesn't teach you to live with the ones you couldn't."

I grunted. "Yeah, and there's a point to all of this. After I lost Farid, a friend and part of the squad, I vowed to myself I'd never abandon someone injured in need of my help."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Michael's name lighting up the screen. He inherited Dad's suspicious nature along with his broad shoulders and stubborn streak.

I glanced at Dorian. His gaze tracked every movement. "I should take this."

The phone kept buzzing as I walked to the kitchen. Michael had radar for when something was off—always had, even when we were kids sneaking cookies before dinner or coming home past curfew.

"Hey, Michael."

"You sound weird." No preamble and no small talk.

The call crackled with static. "Can you hear me? Signal's terrible down here on the coast."

"Barely. You sound like you're underwater." Michael's voice faded in and out.

"Everything okay?"

I turned my back to the living room, dropping my voice. "Just tired. Long shift yesterday."

The call locked in as Michael's annoyance became apparent. "Kayla called Marcus. Said you disappeared for an hour at Harborview after that freeway pileup and then acted strange the rest of the shift." The accusation was mild but persistent. "She's worried you're having a rough patch."

I gripped the kitchen counter with my free hand. Turning back around, I saw Dorian pretending not to listen, his attention fixed on the window like the street outside held fascinating secrets.

"I'm fine. Just needed some air."

"Air." His tone suggested he wasn't buying it. "When's the last time you came by the house? Ma keeps asking if you're eating enough."

"I eat plenty."

"Takeout doesn't count." A pause. "You missed dinner Sunday. Didn't even call."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. Sunday dinners were sacred in the McCabe house—Ma's way of keeping her boys close after Dad died. I hadn't missed one in months.

"Sorry. Got called in for overtime." It was a lie, and it tasted bitter on my tongue.

"Bullshit." Michael's voice rose and sharpened. "Kayla said your shift ended at six last Sunday. Dinner was at seven-thirty. You live twenty minutes away."

I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how? You met someone?"

The question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. My gaze drifted back to Dorian, who was studying his hands.

"Something like that."

"Good. About time. When do we meet him?"

"Michael—"

"Her. When do we meet her?"

I closed my eyes. "It's not like that. It's... new. Complicated."

"Everything's complicated with you, Matthew. Doesn't mean it has to stay that way." A protective edge began to seep into his voice. "Just don't disappear on us, okay? We worry."

"I know."

"Ma's making lasagna this Sunday. Bring your complicated whatever. She'll feed them until they can't move, and we'll all pretend not to notice you're happier than you've been in months."

He assumed I was happy.

"I'll think about it."

"That's McCabe for probably not, but I'll take it." Michael paused. "Love you, brother. Even when you're being weird and secretive."

"Love you, too."

The call ended with a soft beep. I set the phone down and stayed in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the chipped laminate countertop while I tried to untangle the knot of guilt in my gut.

When I returned to the living room, Dorian looked up. I couldn't quite read his expression.

"Family checking in?" he asked quietly.

"Something like that." I slipped the phone back into my pocket. "They assume the worst if I don't regularly check in."

He nodded. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Not telling them about me."

I settled back into my chair, the leather yielding to my weight. "They don't need to know everything."

"Still." He looked down at his hands. "Thank you."

I let silence fill the space between us again.

He looked at the tea on the side table and lifted it. He slowly sipped while he continued to watch me.

We were both quiet, leaving only distant traffic and the muffled drone of Mrs. Kaminski's morning programs in the background.

After returning the tea to the table, he rolled onto his side, folded into a slightly protective curve.

I watched tension drain from his angular features as sleep claimed him.

The hypervigilant sharpness and constant assessment of threats softened.

He appeared vulnerable in a way that probably would have mortified him if he'd known.

A few minutes later, his face contorted.

It began with a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes, lips parting slightly. His shoulders jerked as if someone had yanked them, and those carefully positioned fingers clenched against his ribs.

I recognized the unconscious warfare. I'd witnessed it in too many hospital beds, catching glimpses of it in my bathroom mirror during the months after coming home. The dreams brought back the violence from places where survival meant constant vigilance.

His entire body went rigid, fighting enemies only he could see. A soft, broken noise escaped his throat—neither a cry nor a plea. It was raw pain.

Sweat had gathered along Dorian's hairline despite the cool air, his skin gone pale and clammy. Whatever battle raged behind his closed eyes wasn't yielding ground easily.

As I leaned down to tuck his blanket around his shoulders, he stirred, an arm stretching.

Then I felt it.

His fingers slid against my wrist, not a grip or a grasp. It was only contact. The pads of his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist where my pulse ran close to the surface.

I froze.

His eyes opened, barely. Half-lidded, unfocused.

The pressure of his fingers was like the brush of a feather, and he held them there.

Was it gratitude? Comfort? Or something else I couldn't detect?

I held my breath for a few seconds more before pulling away. His eyes opened wider and followed me as I eased back into the chair.

What the hell was I doing? I'd patched up men in back alleys and blast zones. This shouldn't have felt different, but it did. It felt like crossing some border, but I wasn't sure what.

He kept his eyes on me as I shifted my position slightly. Sleep reclaimed him gradually, but peacefully this time. No twisted dreams. No silent wars. Genuine rest.

I remained there until sleep claimed me, too. Seconds before I slipped into my dream world, something surfaced. It was a persistent, familiar ache that felt like longing, constantly reminding me that maybe I'd been lying to myself about how well I handled solitude.

The apartment had fallen quiet again, but it wasn't empty. The fridge kicked on. My chair's leather creaked beneath me, and in the hush that followed, I realized I hadn't felt alone all morning.