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.
