Chapter Four
Early the next morning, Eli sat cross-legged on the narrow bed in his studio barracks, hair still damp from his shower, a towel draped over his shoulders like a half-hearted cloak.
The room was silent except for the occasional tick of the heating vent and the rustle of pages as he flipped through an old, battered notebook.
It wasn’t therapy per se—he hadn’t done formal journaling since college—but sometimes it helped to scrawl out the mess inside his head.
His muscles ached from yesterday. From almost swimming himself to death.
Again. That was something he hadn’t wanted to admit to Marsh.
There had been another close call about two months ago, but he hadn’t seen it for what it was.
He drew in a deep breath, releasing it shakily.
He couldn’t tell if it was due to the relief of being alive, or for finally admitting to himself that he had been deliberately harming himself.
He rolled the pen between his fingers, staring down at the blank page.
“Try gratitude,” one therapist had once told him. “List three things you’re grateful for. Every day.”
Eli scoffed.
Grateful?
He was grateful that Marsh had been watching the cameras.
He was grateful that his lungs still worked.
He was grateful that someone had looked at him—really looked—and hadn’t run away.
He started writing.
1. Water. Still my church, even when it tries to drown me.
2. Marsh. Maybe. Not sure. Definitely hot, even soaking wet and surprisingly fast for a guy with one leg.
3. That I’m still here. That I have the chance to pull myself out of the spiral. That maybe—just maybe—I am worthy of something good.
He clicked the pen closed and set it aside. His hand trembled. Just a little. Enough. He was definitely going to feel that swim for a while. Everything ached.
Outside, the sun had risen further into the sky, streaking the mountains beyond Obsidian Ridge with a soft orange glow. The facility looked almost serene from this side—silent, ordered, productive. The hum of discipline and intention. Eli respected that.
He hadn’t expected to like it here. He’d imagined bunkers and bravado, not glass panels, solar panels, and muted earth tones. And he definitely hadn’t expected the sheer calm that settled into his bones when he’d first stepped into the pool.
And he hadn’t expected Marsh Clarkson to be the one who’d started breaking through the crap he had wrapped around him as a result of his history.
He should be scared. He should be angry. He should be a hundred things.
But all Eli could feel was tired. Tired and ... curious.
He stood, stretched, and walked to the small kitchenette. Poured a cup of coffee. Black. Burned. Perfect. The steam spiraled upward, soft tendrils disappearing into the dim light of early morning.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the microwave door—still shirtless, bruises still visible across his ribs and back. The skin over his shoulder blade was turning a shade of yellow that meant it was finally healing.
He touched the edge of one, then dropped his hand.
Maybe it was time to stop surviving and start rebuilding.
Maybe it was time to help Marsh do the same.
Eli returned to the bed and sat, coffee warming his fingers, steam curling against his face. The quiet wasn’t so threatening this morning. It wasn’t the heavy, oppressive silence that came with hiding. It was the kind that came with peace. Or maybe ... the promise of it.
He let himself drift for a while, head resting against the wall, eyes tracking the beams of light inching across the floor. For a moment, he imagined what this place would look like if it really became something—a rehab center, maybe. A place where broken people didn’t have to hide from the world.
His fingers tapped against the ceramic mug. It could work. It could really work.
And Marsh... God, Marsh. That man was a storm cloud and a sunrise all rolled into one. Brutal, brilliant, broken—but also fierce. Protective. The kind of man who would roll his wheelchair into a pool fully clothed to save a guy he barely knew.
Eli drained the coffee and stood, walking toward the small set of drawers where he kept his things. He was meeting Marsh for a session—officially. Professionally.
He pulled on a soft hoodie, careful over the bruises, then tugged his shoes on and grabbed a granola bar from the kitchenette. He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and paused, fingers on the door.
Survivors of abuse carried guilt like second skin.
Eli had worked with enough of them to know the signs, the spirals.
They convinced themselves they deserved it—that the pain was proof they were still wrong, still broken, still less-than.
And it didn’t matter how many times he said otherwise to a client, how often he reminded them that survival was not an invitation for shame.
Because when it came to his own bruised ribs and the echo of shouted commands in his head, he believed them, too.
He knew the symptoms. Textbook PTSD. Hypervigilance.
Nightmares. Emotional detachment wrapped in charm and deflection.
He could list them off like he was reciting flashcards.
But knowing didn’t stop the thoughts. It didn’t mute the guilt or erase the sensation that maybe, just maybe, he’d brought it on himself.
He was a work in progress. He always had been.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he muttered to himself.
And then he stepped out into the day.
****
Marsh had been sitting in the makeshift therapy room for all of five minutes and already wanted to punch a wall.
Not because the room was terrible—actually, it was the opposite.
Ezra had insisted the infirmary be comfortable, warm, not the kind of place that screamed hospital.
There were soft leather chairs, framed photos of landscapes and abstract art, even a wall of windows with a view of the trees that lined the eastern perimeter.
The air smelled like clean pine and cinnamon tea.
It was everything Marsh hated about therapy.
Too nice. Too soft. Too quiet.
He shifted in his chair, adjusting the weight on his one good leg and glancing toward the door.
Eli was late. Not by much, but enough that Marsh started to think maybe he wasn’t coming.
That maybe yesterday’s clearing of the air and the deal that the two of them had struck had been a blip. That maybe he’d seen too much.
Or maybe Marsh had scared him off, just like he’d done with every other therapist Ezra had brought in.
He dragged a hand over his face and cursed softly. His palms were already sweaty, the collar of his t-shirt clinging to the back of his neck. His stump itched and ached where it met the socket of the prosthetic he still refused to wear for more than ten minutes at a time.
He was not in the mood for this shit.
Then the door opened.
Eli stepped in, bright-eyed and casual, like he hadn’t almost drowned the day before. Like Marsh hadn’t pulled him out of the pool and held him while he coughed and gasped and trembled.
“Morning,” Eli said cheerfully, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the chair across from Marsh. “You look like you want to bolt.”
“Not far,” Marsh muttered. “Just into traffic. The heavier the better.”
Eli chuckled. “Well, fortunately for both of us, the Ridge is too remote for a good dramatic traffic exit.”
He dropped into the chair, legs crossed, notebook resting on one thigh. He didn’t open it. Just watched Marsh with those eyes that missed nothing.
“So,” Eli said. “This is the part where I ask you how you feel about being here, and you tell me to go screw myself, and then we maybe talk about something real.”
Marsh scowled, but he couldn’t stop the flicker of amusement behind it. “You always this chipper when your clients hate you and therapy and everything that goes with it?”
“Only the hot ones.”
That earned him a grunt. Marsh looked away, jaw tight.
The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. At least not, it seemed, for Eli, who still looked relaxed and calm, but for Marsh it grated a little.
Finally, Marsh said what had been on his mind for a while now. “You’re not like the others.”
Eli tilted his head. “The other therapists?”
Marsh nodded. “Yeah. The others who come in here thinking they’re gonna fix me with breathing exercises and inspirational quotes.”
Eli made a show of checking the pockets of his cargo pants. “Damn, I left my book of inspirational quotes in my other pants.”
Marsh huffed a laugh. Just a breath. But it was something, and for Marsh it felt genuine. His first genuine slice of amusement in months that didn’t have anything to do with the kids at the Ridge.
“I don’t want to talk about feelings,” he felt he had to say. He was not an emotional kinda guy
“Then let’s not.” Eli surprised him by saying. “Tell me about the lab. What are you working on?”
Marsh blinked. “You’re serious.”
Eli nodded.
Marsh hesitated, then shrugged. “Comms project. Real-time translation overlays for field work. Earbud tech with adaptive AI parsing for dialect and inflection.”
Eli grinned. “Sexy.”
Marsh rolled his eyes. “You actually interested or just trying to distract me?”
“A little bit of both,” Eli said. “But mostly interested. The distraction’s just a perk.”
Maybe he could do this.
Maybe this was what healing looked like.
“How many languages can your comms project translate?” Eli asked.
Marsh grinned. “Thirty-two, last count. Full dialect range, including regional slang and inflection. The system learns—so the more exposure it gets, the better it gets. Right now, we’re field-ready for most major conflict zones.”
Eli whistled. “That’s impressive. Any it can’t translate yet?”
“Sure,” Marsh shrugged, a little puffed-up with pride, “but only the ones I haven’t taught it yet. But I’m adding new ones when I can.”
Eli tilted his head, that impish gleam in his eyes again. “Engari ki ōu whakaaro, ka taea e ia te mārama ki ahau?”