Chapter 46

Styles takes first watch.

He sits by the boarded-up window, rifle back resting across his knees, eyes flicking between the cracked street below and the faint glow of the skyline beyond. His silhouette is still, sharp. The only movement comes from the occasional slow turn of his head, checking angles.

Benson is out cold within five minutes.

She's curled up near the far wall, one hand on her rifle, the other under her head. Her breathing is steady. She's used to this. She can still get rest in a war zone, sleeping beside blood.

I however, cannot.

I lie on the tattered mattress, staring at the ceiling. I wonder who's been here before.

Did the men, whose lifeless bodies Benson had disposed of earlier, sleep here only last night?

My boots are still on, gun still clipped to my thigh. I haven't moved since we agreed on the watch order.

The quiet is loud.

No wind. No voices. No radio static. Just the heavy weight of exhaustion sitting behind my eyes, and the sharper, jagged weight of everything else.

Blood still stains the edge of my collar.

I can't stop thinking about it. The slice. The gurgle. The way Styles had moved, like it meant nothing. The way I hadn't even screamed until after.

The bodies on the stairs. The look in Styles' eyes when he came back down.

I know I need to sleep.

I just... can't.

Across the room, Styles shifts.

He's watching me in that way he always does when he thinks I'm too in my own head. Tracking the rise and fall of my chest, the way my fingers twitch against the mattress. He's probably counting my breaths.

I wonder how many nights he's done this before. How many times has he sat in the dark? How many of his companions made it out?

Benson stirs once but doesn't wake.

Finally, maybe twenty minutes before my watch is due, I hear Styles shift again. This time he speaks.

"You need to sleep," he says quietly.

"How do you know I'm not?" I ask.

"Your breathing gives you away," he admits.

"I'm trying," I murmur, voice hoarse.

"I know," he says simply. "You just don't know how to yet."

He waits a second, then sets the rifle down with quiet care. He rises from the windowsill and crosses the room slowly, boots barely making a sound.

He stops by my side, crouching down.

"You're too in your head," he says. "It's a shit place to be when you're trying to stay alive."

"I know," I breathe.

"You're not going to be any use to anyone if you can't rest when you get the chance," he explains.

"I'm trying," I say again, almost childishly this time. "I just... I keep seeing it."

Styles doesn't ask what. He knows.

"I told you," he says. His voice is lower now, more deliberate. "This blood's not yours. You're still breathing. That's all that matters."

I swallow. "Is this what it's like? Always?"

He pauses. "No. Sometimes it's worse."

A bitter laugh scrapes out of my throat. "Is that supposed to help me sleep?"

"No," he replies. "But I don't lie."

He sits down beside me, shoulder just barely brushing mine. I don't say it out loud, but I feel a wave of comfort wash over me. His proximity alone is enough to make my eyes grow a little heavier.

He opens his flask, takes a sip, then hands it to me without a word. I drink. It's water, but it's cold, clean, grounding.

"I can't shut it off," I say eventually.

He leans his head back against the wall behind us, eyes flicking upward.

"You don't need to. You just focus on what's right in front of you. The floor under your back. The gun on your hip. Me, telling you you're safe right now."

My eyes sting. I nod.

"Close your eyes," he says softly. "I'll wake you in twenty."

I shift slightly, laying back again, this time letting my body sink into the weight of the floor beneath me.

I expect him to get up and move back to his post.

He doesn't.

He stays beside me, like a barrier against whatever's out there. And eventually, my breathing slows. It still hurts to close my eyes, but I do it anyway.

The last thing I register before sleep starts to pull me under is his voice, low and quiet.

"Sweet dreams."

_______________

It's calm.

That's the first thing I register. Not the cold tile of the floor, not the tension in my jaw, but calm. It's calm and it's quiet.

It's still dark.

And I'm still alive.

Then I feel the hand.

A touch, featherlight, brushing over the edge of my shoulder. Barely pressure, more like a presence.

"Holton," comes a voice, low and quiet. "Time to switch."

I don't move.

Not because I'm disobeying, but because I don't want to. My body is heavy, deeper in sleep than I thought it could fall in this place. That voice shouldn't feel safe, but it does. Somewhere between dream and memory, it feels like comfort.

I struggle to pull myself into consciousness.

"Holton," he says again, gentler this time. There's something like amusement buried beneath it. "Come on. It's time to get up."

I roll over, barely cracking one eye open. Everything is blurry in the dark, shapes instead of people.

"Five more minutes," I mumble, voice thick with sleep.

He huffs quietly.

"You can't bargain with me," he says. "If you wanted a longer nap, you should've slept sooner."

I groan faintly and rub my eyes. "M'awake. I'm awake..."

"You're very much not," he says. "Come on. Sit up, sunshine."

With effort, I push myself upright. My hair's stuck to the side of my face, and my limbs feel like wet sandbags. I blink hard a few times, adjusting to the low light. Styles is crouched beside me again, his expression unreadable but still somehow soft.

"I'm impressed," he murmurs. "You actually slept. Good girl."

"That's only because you were next to me," I blurt, too sleep-drunk to filter the honesty out in time.

"Noted." He laughs lightly, knowing fine well if I was truly awake those words would have never left my subconscious.

"Sorry. I didn't mean- I just meant; you made it easier," I say, shaking my head, trying to clear the fog.

"I know what you meant," he replies.

He stays there for a second longer than necessary, watching me like he's making sure I'm really with him this time. Then he reaches for his flask again and passes it to me.

"Drink. Slowly," he instructs.

I do. The water jolts my senses into focus, and I pull my knees up to my chest. The silence between us isn't awkward. It's thick, but gentle. Like neither of us really wants it to break.

He leans back against the wall beside me, one knee bent up, arms draped over it casually. It's a posture I've seen him use a hundred times. Relaxed but watchful. Ready.

"You good to hold watch alone?" he asks after a beat.

I nod.

"I think so."

He watches me for a second longer, like he's measuring that answer. Then he shifts slightly and taps two fingers lightly against my chest, just over the sternum.

"You feel that?" he asks.

"My heartbeat?" I ask confused.

"Exactly. Count it."

I pause.

"What?"

"Count to four on the inhale. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold again. Then repeat." He demonstrates it once, slow and rhythmic. "It's called box breathing. Military standard for high-alert ops."

I try it. In. Hold. Out. Hold.

"Do it when your thoughts start racing, when the dark starts talking" he says. "It won't shut it up, but it'll stop it shouting."

I nod again, more steadily this time.

"Thanks," I reply genuinely.

He looks at me. Long and quiet.

"You'll be fine," he says softly. "I wouldn't be handing the watch over if I thought otherwise."

My chest tightens at the trust in his voice. Even now. Even here.

He stands at last, stretching his back with a soft crack. Then he glances toward Benson, still sleeping soundly. He adjusts his rifle, then starts toward his place on the floor.

But before he lies down, he turns back.

"I'll be right here," he says simply. "Shout if anything moves."

I nod again, blinking after him.

And for the first time tonight, when I glance out the cracked window into the dark, I feel just a little in control.

_____________________

The hour passes slowly, but it's quiet.

I sit by the window where Styles had been, watching the street through a narrow crack between the boards. My hands stay near my rifle, but I never have to lift it. A rat scurries across the far side of the road once. A loose bit of metal rattles in the wind. That's it.

No voices. No alarms. No rebels.

I keep my breath steady. I inhale four, hold four, exhale four, hold. His voice repeats the pattern in my head, soft and low like it was before.

The darkness of the night makes my skin crawl, but it's not quite as heavy as before. Not with him behind me. Not with the memory of his hand against my chest, reminding me I'm still here. Still breathing.

When my hour is up, I rise slowly, every joint in my body stiff with fatigue. I make my way across the room, careful not to make too much noise. The light outside is changing. It's greyer now, the sky somewhere between night and morning.

Benson shifts slightly where she sleeps near the wall, her hand still curled around her rifle.

I crouch down beside her and reach out, touching her shoulder gently.

"Your turn," I whisper.

She groans faintly, cracking one eye open. "Already?"

"I'm afraid so," I murmur. "It's been nothing but rats so far, it should be fine."

She snorts softly, sitting up and stretching. "Sounds harrowing."

I offer her a faint smile before stepping back, letting her get to her feet. She moves toward the window and settles in easily, like it's muscle memory.

I glance toward the mattress.

Styles is lying on his side now, one arm tucked under his head. His chest rises slow and even. Eyes closed.

I lower myself carefully beside him. I lie on my side, mirroring him, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his body but not close enough to touch.

But I must disturb something, because his eyes blink open just as I settle.

"Still in one piece?" he asks quietly, voice low and rough with sleep.

"Yeah," I breathe. "Still breathing."

"Good. Get some sleep now. I'm right here," he says gently, clearly acting on my earlier admission.

"I know," I mumble in response, a little embarrassed.

It was true, his presence had helped me sleep earlier. But that was when he was awake. I trust Benson, I know she's a skilled solider, and will be a great lookout. But I can't relax quite the same way when I know it's not him.

I turn over, facing away from him now.

"I can practically hear your brain in overdrive," he whispers. "It's like your nerves are wired to a live current. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm okay," I lie. "I'm disrupting your sleep."

I'm also painfully aware that Benson is awake, and sitting approximately eight metres away.

He shifts slightly onto his back, head still turned toward me. His eyes are clearer now, more awake. Alert. I wonder how long he's been pretending to sleep.

"You're not disrupting anything," he says, low and firm. "I don't sleep deep. You know that." His voice trails off quietly at the end.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel his hand on my back.

I'm instantly jolted back to the survival training in the second week of camp. The way he had helped me to sleep even back then. The irony is, I was practically care-free then in comparison to now. Yet his ability to reassure me was the same.

Then, to my surprise, I feel the slight pressure of his hand on my blanket as it rests on my back. Just a small, barely noticeable touch. He doesn't press, just enough to let me know he's there, his proximity a comforting weight.

His hand says the words I know he would never say in the earshot of Benson.

"I'm scared the visions will be back. Replaying today over and over. Or that we'll miss something. That you'll miss something," I admit suddenly, guard unintentionally lowering by the warmth of his touch.

Styles doesn't flinch at that. Doesn't take offense.

Instead, he shifts again, resting back on his elbow, his voice a notch lower now.

"I don't miss things, Holton," he assures me. There's no arrogance in it. Just certainty. Fact.

"I know," I say, just as quietly. "But I worry."

Then, without comment, he reaches over and pulls the edge of the blanket between us up slightly, enough to shield us both from the morning chill, or maybe just from everything else.

He removes his hand from my back, and I almost whine out in protest, until it's replaced by the solid feel of his chest.

The blanket and night sky, shields us from the view of Benson. His mouth grazes my ear as he mumbles against me, so quiet I almost miss it.

"You're safe," he mutters. "Until I tell you otherwise."

My chest tightens at the words. All I can do is nod.

We fall into silence. Not the strained kind. Just a still one.

Eventually, I feel it. My muscles beginning to loosen, the weight in my chest dulling just slightly.

I don't overthink it, when I reach behind me and grab his arm, pulling it forward to wrap around me.

I shouldn't do this. Not here. In a war zone. With Benson just across the room.

But I need this. He doesn't stop me. He doesn't move away.

I shift again, this time unintentionally closer, enough that my knee brushes his beneath the blanket. He still doesn't move. Still doesn't pull away. Just lets the contact settle.

I want to say something. A thank you. A sorry. Anything. But I'm too tired. And somehow, I think he already knows.

So, I do what he says. I close my eyes.

And I fall asleep in his arms. 

Author's Note:

Hi everyone,

I won't lie, I feel a little uneasy writing this just now with everything going on. This story has always been fiction, and writing it is my escapism. I hope it can still be that for you too in some way, even when reality is terrifying.

Please be kind to yourselves and others. 

Love, B x