Chapter 11

Training Camp – Day 7

After yesterday's "negotiations"/Styles fucking around with the thoughts in our head, the atmosphere in camp was relatively low. I felt like maybe I was the exception to the sour mood. Had Styles got under my skin? Absolutely. But I know that I did enough to turn it back on him. The, admittedly minor, power shift had given me a buzz that I don't think I've had since I've been here.

Today was day 7, which marked the halfway point in this training camp.

As Styles entered the room at 6 as normal, the usual anxiety and fear of the unknown crept in.

"Alright recruits. Today is day 7. The halfway point. From here on in, we're going to turn the heat up even more. This is when soldiers are really made. But, for today I have taken the liberty of preparing a personalised training session for each of you. 12 of you. 12 hours. 1 hour of quality time with me each. Aren't you lucky motherfuckers?" Styles says smugly. There are definitely a few looks cast around the recruits. We have never been alone with Styles before, apart from our 5-minute stints during yesterday's session. Just me and him. Nowhere to hide, no one to distract him or take the pressure off.

"I really want to see you give it your all today. No other recruits across this base will get an opportunity to have 1 on 1 with their C.O to work on their own individual targets. You're going to get exactly what you need to improve. So, don't disappoint me."

____

I already knew where I was heading before Kelso, who had just returned from his session with Styles in the gym, informed me.

"Holton, you're up! Styles said he will meet you in the armoury," Kelso had called out.

Clearly wearing my anxiety on my face, Private Jefferies squeezed my shoulders. "C'mon kid, you've got this," he tried to reassure me. It didn't work. Guns, weapons, panic.

_____

As I walk into the armoury, Styles is already there, learning against a wall casually. He looks up as I enter and I try to mask my fear and control my breathing. If I give into the panic this early, it's going to be the longest 60 minutes of my life.

I swallow, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. The moment I'm standing in front of him, I feel the heat radiating from his body. He's close, too close. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just eyes me, like he's sizing up something.

"I think we need to work on your gun skills," he finally says, voice cool. "You know that's your weakness, don't you?"

I nod quickly. The gun. That's been my weakness since the start, since Day 1. It's always been my weakness.

"Good," he mutters, stepping back, gesturing toward the target. "Let's see how far you've come since the last time we touched on it."

I nod again, though I can barely focus. I reach for the handgun, fingers brushing the cold metal. But the moment I grip it, a sudden wave of heat rushes to my head, and my breath catches in my throat. My fingers tremble, and I feel my heartbeat quicken, thudding in my ears. This is it. I can't do this. Not now. Not with him watching me. Not again.

I close my eyes, dragging in a breath, trying to steady myself. It doesn't work.

"Holton." His voice cuts through my haze, sharp but not unkind. I shake my head, my grip on the gun slipping. I'm trying. I swear I'm trying. But my body isn't listening. He steps closer.

He crouches, lowering himself to my level. His voice drops, quieter, steadier. "You're not breathing right." His hand—warm, steady—closes over mine, pressing the gun into my palm. Not forcing, just holding. His other hand rests lightly on my back, just between my shoulder blades. A grounding weight.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice no longer commanding, but something else. Something softer. "You're here. I'm here. You're fine. We're not doing anything yet, just holding it. I'm holding it too."

The panic doesn't vanish, but it ebbs, just slightly. I focus on his hand on mine. He pushes his chest forward until it is flat against my back. It allows me to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. I match it. One breath, then another. The fog in my head clears just enough. Then, just as I find a sliver of control, his grip tightens.

"Now snap the fuck out of it."

I blink, startled by the sharpness, the sudden shift. His hand is still on mine, but now he's pushing, making me hold the weight of the gun properly.

"This isn't going away. You don't get to freeze up in the field. You don't get to hesitate. You pull that trigger, or you die. Those are your choices." He gives me a second more before he pulls away completely. For a moment, neither of us speak. The gun is still in my hands, and I'm not shaking as much.

His voice returns to something sharper. "Good. Now let's see if you can actually use it."

The shift is immediate. He steps back, crossing his arms. The warmth from moments ago is gone, replaced with that familiar challenge, that damn arrogance that makes my stomach twist.

"Are you going to stand there all day, Private, or are you going to prove you can actually aim?" he jibes.

The taunt does what it's meant to. It sparks something in me. I readjust my grip, squaring my shoulders. I lift the gun with both hands. The tension in my body hasn't left, but I push through it.

"Feet apart," Styles corrects from behind me. "Too rigid."

I adjust.

He steps closer, and suddenly his hand is on my waist, pressing lightly to shift my stance. My breath hitches, and I know he notices, but he doesn't comment on it. He's all business again. He leans in slightly, voice low by my ear. "Keep both eyes open. You flinch, you miss."

"Now!" he commands.

I exhale. The weight of the gun hasn't changed even though I'm able to hold it now. My pulse is still too high. Just pull the trigger Mollie. You're all set up and ready to go, just do it. It's me versus my adrenaline right now.

"You're freaking out, aren't you?" Styles voice cuts through the noise. I snap my gaze up to meet his, but there's no mocking in his eyes, just this... knowing. And it makes my stomach twist. I don't think I can get any words out right now, so I simply nod. His acknowledgement of my terror brings the tears to my eyes. I'm so fucking overwhelmed.

He steps in closer, his body almost brushing against mine again. "What's really going on?"

I swallow, the words caught in my throat. It's too much. I don't want to let him see this side of me, not now, not when I've spent so much time pretending to be tough. Pretending like I've got it under control. Sort of anyway.

"I'm not afraid of the gun itself," I begin, voice quiet and weak. "It's just... what it represents. What it means." I pause, feeling my chest tighten again. I try to push the fear down, but it's relentless. "It's the idea of using it. In a real situation. Taking someone's life. Knowing I could do that—whether I'm ready for it or not." My admission is out on the open, but I'm not sure how I feel about it.

There's a long silence, and I almost regret saying anything at all. I don't know why I told him. Maybe I just needed to get it out. But as the words settle in the air between us, I feel vulnerable—too exposed.

"I get it," Styles says quietly, his tone shifting, softer but no less intense. He takes a step back, not quite giving me space but enough that I can feel like I'm not suffocating. "You don't just shoot someone, Holton. You make a choice. A decision you can't take back. And that's terrifying."

I nod, trying to hold it together. The lump in my throat grows. "Yeah. Exactly."

Styles' gaze softens, and for a moment, I almost forget about the gun in my hands. His expression is serious now—no teasing, no cocky smirk. Just... understanding.

"You know, it's normal to feel that way," he says, his voice steady. "Not everyone's cut out for this. The real thing, the choice—it's not as simple as pointing and shooting. There's a lot of weight behind it." He steps in a little closer, his voice low. "But that's what we're here for. That's why I'm here. So that when... if... the moment comes. You'll at least know you aren't alone in it."

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog in my brain. "But it comes so naturally to you. How can you just be ready for something like that." I ask, genuinely curious.

"I don't think anyone ever feels ready," he replies. "You just... learn. You train. And when the time comes, you do what you need to do. You make the choice."

I can't meet his eyes anymore. I stare at the gun, my fingers still tight around it. "I don't know if I can."

He's quiet for a long moment, and I start to feel the weight of my confession. I'm not sure why I said it. I'm not sure why I let myself get so... vulnerable with him. He doesn't push me. He doesn't rush me to get over it. He just watches me, like he's waiting for me to figure it out. His voice comes quietly again, like he's not just speaking to me as a recruit, but as someone who might understand.

"I won't lie to you, Holton. The day might come where you'll have to make that call. And I won't be there to hold your hand through it." He pauses, then adds, "But I'm here now. You're not alone now. Not while I'm training you. It's much better to have experiences here, and get comfortable with the uncomfortable in a place you're at least little familiar with," he reasons. He's actually making sense to me. His logic reasons well with my panic-stricken brain.

I finally look up at him. "I don't want to disappoint you," I say, almost in a whisper.

He shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his face. "You won't. You'll make mistakes, and I'll probably bite your head off for it. But you're not going to disappoint me by getting better. By learning. By pushing through." He pauses, his smirk returning, just a little. "And besides, it's not like I've given up on you yet, Private."

"Alright," I say, the words more confident now, though still laced with uncertainty. "I'm ready to try again."

Styles gives me a slow, approving nod. "Good. Let's see if that hesitation's gone this time."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and aim again, this time with more clarity than before. I try to focus in on where I want to aim. I try to take in everything around me.

"Your hesitating," he drawls, his voice cutting through the noise in my head. "Stop overthinking it. It's just a target, Holton, not your personal nemesis."

I focus again, lining up the shot. "Here goes nothing."

Bang. The shot hits, but not exactly where I wanted. It's off-centre. I bite back a frustrated groan.

"Well, at least you didn't miss completely." Styles' voice is light, almost teasing, but I can hear the edge of approval beneath it. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, glancing up at him. "You've still got a long way to go." He affirms. "But, you're getting there, Holton. You just have to trust yourself more," he says, voice low and almost encouraging.

I nod, but I can't help the damn flush that creeps up my neck. The Styles standing in front of me feels different today —there's something about it. Something that has nothing to do with the training, and everything to do with him.

"Alright. Next shot," Styles says, snapping me back to reality. But there's still that faint glint in his eyes, like he knows he's got me on the hook now.

I nod, clearing my throat. It's time to prove to myself that I can do this. That I can get through this. But I'm starting to wonder if maybe there was more to this training than just helping me aim a gun.