Chapter Five
Three weeks later, Eli stood in the kitchenette of his small barracks studio, staring into a half-full mug of coffee like it might offer up the answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask out loud.
Three weeks since the therapy session that turned into a kiss that turned into something more—long swims, late-night conversations, stolen touches in quiet corners, and kisses that lingered just a little too long to be casual. It was soft. It was slow. And it scared the hell out of him.
Not because it wasn’t good. But because it was too good.
And too good never lasted.
He shook the thought away, sipping his coffee, his body still humming with the buzz of morning laps. Marsh had opted to skip the pool that morning, tinkering with something in the lab, but Eli had swum alone, using the time to breathe, to center.
Or at least he had tried to.
The sun slanted in through the window, casting long shadows over the desk where his rehab program proposal sat half-drafted.
He’d been working on it between sessions, building a case for a specialized aquatic therapy wing on the Ridge.
Ezra had been quietly enthusiastic about the idea.
Quietly enthusiastic was Ezra-speak for hell, yes, let’s do this.
His eyes drifted toward the sketch he’d made the night before—a blueprint for a hydrotherapy pool with privacy lanes and sensory-adaptive lighting. Marsh had teased him about the lighting notes, calling them ‘spa vibes,’ but Eli had caught the way his mouth quirked, how his eyes softened.
He’d come a long way from the bitter, closed-off man in the chair.
And maybe Eli had helped. Just a little.
He set the mug down and wandered to the window. From here, he could just make out the edge of Marsh’s lab, its wide bay door cracked open to let in the morning light. The memory hit without warning—sharp and warm.
It was two weeks ago and Eli stood in the doorway to Marsh’s lab, listening to the man cursing. Loudly
Eli, one brow raised, arms crossed. “You know, some people say talking sweet to the prosthetic helps it cooperate.”
Marsh glared at him. “This thing was fitted when I was still high as hell on morphine. It’s useless now.”
“Let me see,” Eli said, walking over and crouching down beside where Marsh sat, the old socket and limb laid out like an autopsy.
He studied it carefully, noting the chafed edges, the misalignment in the fitting. “Your stump’s shrunk,” he said softly.
Marsh snorted. “Well, thanks for that boost of self-esteem.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “I mean the swelling’s gone down. Healing’s changed your shape. This prosthetic doesn’t fit anymore, not properly. It’s no wonder it’s hurting you.”
Marsh said nothing.
Eli straightened up. “Come with me. Let’s get you scanned for a new one.”
Marsh hesitated. “They never get it right.”
Eli looked him dead in the eye. “I will.”
It took some convincing. And a fair amount of side-eye.
But by the end of the day, they’d 3D scanned his limb, consulted with a specialist from a hospital Eli often worked with for prosthetics for his clients, and began designing a new, high-tech prototype Marsh could modify himself.
One that could integrate sensory feedback and adaptive joint response—his eyes had lit up when he realized how much control he could have.
That was the first time Eli had seen him smile without it being tempered by pain.
Now, standing in the morning light, Eli let that memory warm him. Let it hold back the worry that was growing within him.
He was falling. Fast. Stupidly fast. And that terrified him.
It wasn’t just the gravity of it—it was the weight of knowing what came after the fall.
He’d seen it in others, seen it in himself, the way pain could masquerade as passion, the way trauma could weave itself into the edges of something that felt like love until you couldn’t tell them apart.
He didn’t know if he could let himself fall for Marsh given how broken they both were.
He knew the signs. He could spot trauma bonding a mile away in his clients—two fractured people clinging to each other not because it was right, but because it was familiar.
Comfortable, even in the discomfort. Codependency dressed up as connection.
He told himself this was different. That what they had was something else. Something real.
But doubt lingered. Was it healthy? Was it fair—to either of them?
He didn’t know.
All he knew was that when Marsh looked at him, he felt seen. Not pitied. Not tolerated. Seen. And when Marsh smiled, really smiled, it was like something inside Eli settled. Something quieted.
And maybe ... maybe that was enough.
He drained the rest of his coffee and turned back to his proposal.
For now, there was work to do.
****
Marsh didn’t know why he’d agreed to go into town with Eli.
Actually, that was a lie.
It was because Eli had looked at him with that lopsided smile, eyes dancing like Marsh wasn’t the worst thing to happen to breakfast, and said, “Come on. We’ll do something normal. Groceries. Fresh air. I’ll push, you roll, we’ll argue about cereal.”
So here he was, in the tiny grocery store on the edge of Pinedale, Wyoming, while Eli navigated the narrow aisles with a cart and he his wheelchair like they were running a tactical op. They were halfway down the breakfast aisle when Eli came to an abrupt halt, holding up two cereal boxes.
“Okay, important question,” Eli said, holding up a box of Froot Loops in one hand and Raisin Bran in the other. “Colorful sugar or heart-healthy?”
Marsh snorted. “One looks like a clown threw up and the other tastes like cardboard had a sad affair with raisins.”
Eli gave him a mock gasp. “Blasphemy. Raisin Bran is a classic.”
“So is polio. Doesn’t mean we want to keep it around.” Marsh said dryly.
Eli laughed, placing both boxes in the cart. “Compromise. I’ll mix ‘em together.”
Marsh slammed his hand against his chest with a mock gasp. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m a trailblazer,” Eli countered. “Besides, it’s all going to the same place.”
They continued on, arguing over the superiority of different granola bars and the ethical ramifications of off-brand mac and cheese. It was mundane, pointless, and utterly normal.
And Marsh found himself relaxing.
It was ... nice.
That thought hit him like a truck. He wasn’t used to nice. Wasn’t used to normal.
They had just finished at the checkout, bags in a trolley Eli pushed beside him, and had just stepped out the exit heading to Marsh’s truck, when he felt rather than saw a shift in Eli. His shoulders went tight, and his steps slowed. Two men were approaching them on the sidewalk.
One tall, crisp, military-grade posture under civilian clothes that still screamed authority. The other was bulkier, clearly the muscle, with a flat expression and sunglasses that reflected the world back at anyone who looked at them.
The tall one stepped forward.
“Elias,” he said.
Eli inhaled, and Marsh saw a tremor roll through his body. All the color had drained from his face. His knuckles on both hands were white on the cart handle.
Marsh narrowed his eyes. “Friend of yours, Eli?”
The man ignored him. “I did not think I’d find you playing house in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming.”
Eli opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Marsh wheeled forward slightly, sliding between Eli and the man. “That’s close enough.”
The man tilted his head, eyes assessing. “You must be the cripple Eli’s been brought in to fix.”
Marsh didn’t flinch. He leaned back in the chair, voice low and even. “And you must be the mistake no one had the balls to correct. Guess we both got scars.”
The man’s eyebrow arched. “Is that any way to speak to a superior officer?”
“I’m not in the service anymore and you sure as shit ain’t superior to me,” Marsh said calmly. “Which means I can talk to assholes like you however I damn well please.”
The second man stepped forward, just enough to loom. Marsh didn’t flinch. Instead, he rolled forward, inch by inch, letting the full weight of his stare land on the guy. Marsh might not be able to see behind the sunglasses but knew the big bastard could see the killer in his eyes.
The driver hesitated. Took half a step back.
That made the high-ranking officer—because that’s who the bastard clearly was—go red in the face with rage.
“You worthless piece of shit, get over here where you belong!” Then he lunged forward, reaching for Eli’s arm.
Big mistake.
Marsh’s hand snapped out, clamped around the man’s wrist, and twisted.
The man cursed, yanking his arm back as he almost dropped to his knees, fury crackling off him in waves.
“You don’t get to touch him,” Marsh said, voice low, dangerous.
“You boys lost? Or just real bad at reading the room?” A third voice cut through the air from the sidewalk behind them, casual as hell but loaded with warning. All heads turned in his direction.
Nick Jones, Pinedale’s sheriff and one of two husbands devoted to Sniper Team Bravo member Sam Wilson, a kick ass sniper and medic in his own right, stepped closer to them, hand resting casually on his belt.
Nick placed his hand on Marsh’s shoulder for a moment.
“I wouldn’t piss this man off if I were you,” Nick said, eyes locked on the officer currently going an interesting shade of red.
“He’s got a confirmed kill count that’d make your balls shrink.
Even with one leg, he can outshoot most operatives with two, not to mention he’s a Pathfinder.
So, unless you’re looking to end up on their shit list, I’d rethink your tone. ”
The Colonel’s lips curled. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Nick stepped forward. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with, I just don’t give a shit. And I’m telling you to leave. Now. Before I forget my manners and simply arrest your pompous ass. I don’t have a charge at the moment, but I would have one before we made it to the station.”
The Colonel hesitated, then jerked his head at his driver. They turned and left, silence heavy in their wake.
Eli was trembling. Marsh turned to him, voice gentler now. “Hey. You okay?”
Eli nodded once. “I ... yeah. Um ... yeah.”
But he wasn’t. And Marsh knew it.
Nick lingered on the sidewalk, watching the Colonel’s black SUV drive off with one final glare thrown over his shoulder through the glass. The tension hadn’t left Eli’s body, and Marsh could feel it radiating like a wire pulled taut.
“Just so you know,” Nick said quietly, his voice low but firm, “that son of a bitch tried to file a missing person’s report on Eli this morning. Even went so far as to suggest kidnapping.”
Eli’s breath caught. His grip on the cart tightened.
Marsh didn’t move. “He what?”
“Didn’t get far,” Nick added, shaking his head.
“When I rang over to the Ridge, I got Blake and he told me in no uncertain terms that not only was Eli here on his own free will, but and I quote, “Eli is one of ours, which makes him one of yours, Nick Jones, so you shoot that prick in the face and be done with it,” before he hung up on me.”
Nick looked after the retreating vehicle.
“Still. He talks like he’s doing the right thing, for all the right reasons, all polished and professional.
But I’ve seen men like that. Hell, I was raised by one.
It’s always in the little things—the way he spoke about Eli, the way he looked down his aristocratic nose at those of us in the station, and how he spoke to Eli just now, like he wasn’t even standing there, like he was a thing to possess. ”
Marsh turned slightly, catching Eli’s profile—pale, jaw tight, eyes distant.
“He’s not done,” Nick said. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Marsh said darkly. “I know.”
Eli gave a small nod, but Marsh could almost see it now—gears grinding, panic pulling at the edges of his calm. He was making plans. Backup routes. Exit strategies.
He was thinking about running.
No fucking way was Marsh about to let that happen.