Bateman watched him for a long moment before nodding.“So, where is Eli now?”
“In my suite over at Ridge House.Probably still working on the schematics for the new therapy wing Ezra’s funding.He’s designing it for the team—for any of us who might need it in the future—but for others as well.Making it a haven.A place where we can help other vets like me.”
Bateman gave a slow, approving nod.“I like him.He’s sharp.He’ll make one hell of a member of this team.”
Marsh’s throat tightened.
Bateman nodded again, more slowly this time.“I’ll let the rest of the team know.We’ll keep things tight.You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Marsh nodded, jaw tight.
He was done reacting.It was time to be ready.
He looked at the screen again, then down at the prosthetic attached to his leg.
He’d meet White head-on.
And this time, he wouldn’t be sitting in a goddamn wheelchair.
He’d be on his feet—with Eli safe behind him.
With the Pathfinders at his side.
Bateman gave a final grunt of approval before heading for the door.“Don’t keep him waiting too long, Marsh.”
The door shut with a soft click, and Marsh exhaled slowly.The hum of the lab filled the silence.
He shut down the military file and turned back to his workbench.With careful precision, he reached for the prototype translation device and fitted it snugly behind his ear.Just in case.He wanted to hear everything, catch every nuance of Eli’s voice, even the ones in that melodic language he was determined to decode.
Sliding his chair back, Marsh stood.The prosthetic adjusted smoothly beneath him, the sensors syncing with his movements.It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn close.The ridge of discomfort around the socket had dulled.Eli had been right—once the fit was perfect, the pain became almost non-existent.Oh, it flared up if he rushed the connection, or didn’t have it in correctly, if he wore it too long or didn’t use the creams and powders and shit Eli gave him.And the control?The fluid movement?That was on him.
He grabbed his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder as he powered down the last of the terminals.His gaze flicked to the photo clipped to his monitor—an old mission shot of the Pathfinders.Van in the center, grinning.Marsh let his fingers rest on it for a moment, then turned away.
He took the long way out of the lab, weaving past the racks of equipment, past the suspended exo-frame he’d been tweaking.Each step steady.Controlled.No stumble, no cane.And it wasn’t about pride—it was about reclaiming what was his.
Outside, the night was crisp.The path to Ridge House was lit by warm ground-level lights.Marsh walked it, not wheeled.Not this time.
As he neared the house, he thought of Eli.Probably sitting cross-legged on their bed, biting his lip while scribbling notes on the schematics, muttering to himself in that soft voice of his that had Marsh’s heart beating a little faster.Maybe even humming.He’d started doing that lately.And Marsh liked it more than he cared to admit.
What he liked most was being tall enough to pull Eli into his arms, feel the slide of those lean muscles against him.The way Eli would nuzzle into his chest like he belonged there—as if Marsh’s broken pieces didn’t matter.
Maybe they didn’t.
Not with Eli.
Not anymore.
****
Eli sat cross-leggedon the bed in Marsh’s suite, notebook open, pages littered with doodles and architectural sketches.Swatches of color samples and product pamphlets were scattered around him like confetti.A half-eaten protein bar sat on the bedside table, forgotten as he scribbled with intense focus.
The door to the bedroom clicked open.
Eli glanced up—and froze.
Marsh stood just inside the room, leaning slightly but balanced on both feet.On both legs.The prosthetic gleamed faintly in the soft lighting below the shorts Marsh was wearing.
“Holy shit,” Eli whispered, dropping the pen.
