Noah

I wear it to the station.

Not on purpose—or that’s what I tell myself as I’m getting dressed in the dark at 0530, Eli still asleep behind me, Hank a warm lump at the foot of the bed. I pull on my undershirt. Grab my uniform shirt. And the cord is still there, braided leather against my collarbone, because I forgot to take it off.

I didn’t forget.

I stand in the bathroom mirror and look at it—dark against my skin, sitting just above the neckline of my undershirt. If I button my uniform shirt all the way, it’s invisible. If I leave the top button open—the way I always do, because buttoning to the neck is for inspections and funerals—there’s a quarter-inch of leather visible in the hollow of my throat.

“You’re spiraling,” Eli says from the doorway.

“I’m not spiraling. I’m accessorizing.”

“Wear it. For me.”

I unbutton the top button. Leave a quarter-inch of leather visible. Meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Yes, sir.”

The shift is normal. Torres notices the cord. Eli’s neck goes red. Nobody says anything. Then the structure fire call drops. During overhaul, my collar shifts. The cord slides into view. Eli sees it mid-radio-call. Stops talking for one loaded second.

On the rig back, his boot finds my ankle under the seat. Presses. Holds.

The station empties for shift change. Eli finds me in the locker room. Locks the door.

“Turn around.”

“You wore it on a call,” he says.

“Nothing slips with you, Noah. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He’s right. I let him see it in context—his lieutenant rank and the leather at my throat that says I’m his in every other way. And seeing it does exactly what I wanted: he crosses the locker room in three steps and pins me against the wall.

His hand goes to my throat. Wrapping around it, palm pressing against the leather. Not squeezing. Holding. Claiming.

“You like pushing me,” he says. Low. The register.

“It’s literally my favorite thing.”

“And this? This is literally mine.”

He kisses me hard. Pins my wrists above my head against the cold metal of the locker.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

The callback to the first night. The truck bay. The words that started everything.

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t.”

Then he drops to his knees.

The sight of Eli Rourke kneeling in the locker room where this started—looking up at me with blue eyes full of command and devotion—short-circuits my brain. He never kneels. He’s the one who stands.

“This is what you get,” he says, “for wearing my cord on my fire ground.”

What follows is the most devastating twenty minutes of my life. His mouth. His hands. The locker ringing when my head slams back against it. The sounds he makes—deliberate, skilled, relentless—until I come so hard my legs give out and I slide down the locker to the floor.

We sit on the concrete. I return the favor—fast, rough, urgent. He comes in under a minute.

Afterward: breathing. My head on his shoulder. The cord warm at my throat.

“Wear it,” he says. “Every day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just a cord. Just a choice. Just this.

Thank you for reading! If you loved Eli and Noah, make sure you’ve grabbed the full novel.

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