Chapter 54

I don't know how long we've been sitting in silence.

Styles isn't exactly a social butterfly, and I have nothing left in me to rake over the events of the last week again.

Nevertheless, I'm glad he's here. He's the only person I can bear to look at right now. The only person with whom I can sit in both silence and grief.

I don't know when that happened. If my dad had died three weeks ago, the sight of Styles would've sent me into a meltdown. His sharp, cut-throat manner would have been antagonising. Now, I welcome it. Look for it. Need it.

He hasn't moved since I woke. Sat with me in this small curtained enclosure. I stare at him. He's not looking at me, lost in his thoughts, but I know he can feel my gaze. I don't care. I study his face and wonder what he's thinking about as I drift off to sleep again.

_______________________________

A quiet rustling next to me stirs me.

The room is dark now, night fallen. Styles is standing, stretching out of the rigid position he'd kept for hours.

"What are you doing?" I ask, voice hoarse from sleep.

"I need to get back to base. If I don't scan in for curfew tonight, I'll never hear the end of it, regardless of how many hostages I've saved."

My stomach drops.

"I don't want to stay here," I whisper.

"Your meds still need adjusting," he says. "They've got you on a strict schedule. Pain relief, infection control. You're nowhere near ready to go back to a dorm, especially one as chaotic as yours. You need quiet. Rest. Healing."

"I can't sleep. I don't want to be alone. I hate these walls. It's too quiet. Everything hurts. And the second I close my eyes, I see him." My voice cracks. Panic floods my chest.

Styles exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks torn.

"You can't leave the hospital; the doctors need to sign you off," he insists.

"I don't want to stay here." I swallow hard. "Not alone."

"I need to get back to base," he persists, softer now. "I'll come by whenever I can. That's a promise."

"I need more than that," I beg.

"The nurses-"

"I need you."

I'm vulnerable, in every sense of the word. I've never been so honest with Styles. It's no secret I've needed him before, but it's always been for his knowledge or skills. Now, I don't need to know how to shoot a gun or build a shelter. I just need him.

And that does it. He looks at me properly, and I know he sees it. The terror, the helplessness, the grief I'm drowning in. Something shifts in his face.

He shakes his head.

"Alright," he murmurs. "Come on."

He scoops me out of the bed effortlessly. My arms curl around his neck. Pain shoots through my leg and I whimper, but he adjusts, careful, steady, protective.

"Where are we going?" I whisper against his shoulder.

"My room," he says simply. "Just for the night. I'll have you back before rounds, before anyone notices you're gone. That's not up for debate."

Air finally drags into my lungs.

"Thank you," I breathe.

He rolls his eyes. He already knew he was never leaving without me.

"What if you get in trouble?" I ask.

He huffs a breath, half a laugh. "What's new. You only end up in trouble when you get caught. I won't get caught."

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The corridors are dim and hushed. He carries me through them like it's nothing, my weight curled against his chest. Every few steps, pain flares and I jolt. Each time, he hushes me with words I can't catch but somehow steady me anyway.

At the security gate, his arm tightens around me as he scans us through. Every blind spot, every shortcut, he knows them all. I don't question it. Of course he does.

Finally, we stop at a door I've only ever seen from the outside. His.

He unlocks it with a soft click and steps inside.

It's neat. The bed is made with sharp, military corners. The faint smell of cedarwood lingers in the air, mixed with clean laundry. A desk holds a closed laptop, a battered paperback, and a half-empty mug. A uniform jacket hangs over the chair, boots lined neatly beneath.

No clutter. No softness. Just him.

He lowers me onto the bed gently, pulling the blanket back before tucking it over me.

"It's not the cosiest place in the world," he mutters, quieter than usual. "But it's better than a hospital ward. Hopefully you can rest."

"Thanks," I reply, matching his hush.

He hesitates, then turns to spread a spare blanket on the floor.

"What are you doing?" I frown.

"Making up the floor."

"Why?"

"You need the bed. You're going back to a hospital bunk, and after that, a dorm full of chaos. The least I can do is give you a few hours of a double bed."

I blink at him. And then, to my own shock, a laugh slips out. Quiet, fragile, but real. The first in the last forty-eight hours. 

"You're not sleeping on the floor," I tell him.

"I don't want to overstep."

"We're past that," I whisper. "Please. I don't want to be alone."

That's all it takes. He sighs, dragging a hand over his face before stripping off his shirt and trousers with brisk, no-nonsense movements, left in just his boxers. My cheeks burn, but he doesn't linger on it, just climbs in carefully beside me.

I turn onto my good side, let my head rest on his chest. Instantly, my body loosens.

His fingers find my hair, stroking through it slowly. His thumb brushes along the inside of my wrist, steady and rhythmic, like counting out my heartbeat.

My eyes begin to close until the memories hit. The last forty-eight hours unspool behind my eyelids like film reels.

"You okay?" he murmurs, catching my tension.

"No," I admit.

"Then you need to talk. Distract yourself until you drift off. Silence makes it worse."

"It has to be light-hearted."

"Alright," he whispers. "What do you want to talk about?"

I smirk weakly. "How many girls have you had in this bed?"

He glances down at me, frowning faintly. "None."

I squint at him. "Be serious. Maybe I'm the first girl you've carried in like a pity patient, but come on. Surely there's been others."

"I am being serious. No one's ever been here before," he replies candidly.

"You've got a reputation, Styles. Don't tell me you've been celibate all this time," I tease.

"I never said that." He looks away. "But not here. This place is mine. It's not for that."

I stare at him, startled by the honesty.

He shifts, mischief flashing in his eyes, like he wants to cut the heaviness. "What about you, then?"

"What about me?"

"Your escapades." His grin turns sharp. "Tell me about your first. Was it romantic? Charming? Or was it in some random's bathroom at a party?"

I groan, burying my face in his chest. "God, don't say it like that."

He laughs, low and genuine, and for the first time in days, something in me feels almost human again.

"Come on, tell me," he coaxes.

"It was... awful. I mean, not terrible, just... not what I expected. Totally anticlimactic," I admit, laughing to myself at the memory.

"Anticlimactic, huh?" He hums thoughtfully, letting a finger trace a line down my arm.

"There was a lot of... fumbling. And then it was over. And we awkwardly laughed. End of story."

"Fumbling and awkward laughter?" His grin turns wicked. "Whoever he was, he sure knows how to wow a girl."

"Don't be mean," I push at his chest weakly, though it barely moves him. "He was nervous, I was nervous."

"And here I thought you'd have some scandalous first-time story, not what I expected from you" he murmurs, voice low and teasing, as his hand drifts back to my hair.

I bite my lip, heat creeping up my neck. "I'm not saying all of my sexual experiences have been quiet so disappointing, but it was our first."

"Yeah, well, I was a virgin once too," he smirks. "And let me tell you, there was no fumbling. You should've picked someone worth the trouble."

"That's quite a claim," I murmur.

"Not a claim. Fact," he corrects, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I roll my eyes, laughing softly at his cockiness. "No one likes a brag."

"It's not bragging if it's true."

I scoff.

"Anyway, I told you, I've had plenty of satisfactory sexual experiences since then," I protest.

"The fact that you chose the word satisfactory is telling, Holton. If a girl I'd slept with described me as satisfactory, I'd probably throw myself off a cliff," he says dramatically.

I groan, burying my face against his chest. "Stop making it sound like I'm some clueless teenager."

"You're not clueless," he says, slow and deliberate. "You just... haven't had the right experience yet."

"Right experience?" My pulse spikes.

He hums, amused, one hand tracing tiny circles on my wrist.

"Yeah. There's a difference between selfish, half-hearted, satisfactory... and someone who actually knows what they're doing."

I glance up at him, heart thudding in my chest. "Are you saying you're... good at it?"

He quirks an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. "Well... you've already had a taste, haven't you?" He pauses, letting the words sink in. "And from what I remember, you seemed to enjoy yourself."

Heat flares across my cheeks. I glance down at his chest, suddenly aware of how close we are.

"You're being a dick," I retaliate. I shift slightly, trying to make myself comfortable without giving him the satisfaction of looking too vulnerable. He notices immediately, fingers tightening around mine just enough to make me pause.

"And you can't sit still all of a sudden," he hits back. "Relax," he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

I let silence fall over us.

"You feel tense," he continues. "Every muscle. Like you're trying to keep control."

I breathe out, shaking my head against his chest. He hums, amused, pressing a little closer, his chest warm against mine.

"Mm. I can tell. But you don't have to be." His hand drifts back to my hair, twirling a strand around his finger. "Not here. Not with me. You can just feel."

I swallow hard, caught off guard by how simple, and how powerful, his words are. I try to argue, to reclaim my composure, but my words fizzle in my throat.

He's not going to let me off that easily. "Come on, I thought it was you who wanted to chat darling?"

I don't dare to look up at him, but I know the smirk on his face is deadly.

I let out a small laugh, tired and shaky, and it feels like a little release. My body begins to loosen, the tension melting under his touch.

The warmth, the quiet murmurs, the slow, rhythmic touch of his fingers all over my skin. It's hypnotic. My heartbeat slows, my breath evens, and for the first time in hours, I feel like I can finally let go.

"Good girl, that's better" he murmurs after a while, sensing my relaxation. "Go to sleep, I'll be right here."

And I do. I let the teasing, the tension and the pain fade into the background. I let his presence cradle me into sleep.