Chapter 55

I wake to the sound of footsteps. Slow. Careful.

It takes a moment for my foggy brain to register why the ground feels like it's moving. Then it hits me.

I am moving. But it's not my legs carrying me.

I finally feel it. His arms. Styles.

He's carrying me.

My cheek is pressed against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath. The rhythm of his heartbeat. Steady.

I shift slightly. His hold tightens.

"You're awake," he murmurs, voice low so it doesn't echo in the corridor.

"Why are you carrying me?" My voice comes out small, scratchy.

"Because you were asleep," he answers simply. "We're almost back."

My heart drops.

I know where he's taking me. I don't want to go back. I want to stay in that room with him forever, pretending the outside world doesn't exist. Because in that room, it doesn't feel like there's a war waging outside. The grief, though a crippling endless weight, is just about bearable. Because it doesn't feel like I'm bearing the weight of it alone, he holds it with me. In that room, no matter the temperature, I feel warm.

His eyes flick down at me briefly. "Rounds start soon. If I'm not back before shift change, people will notice. So will the nurses."

"I don't want to go back," I whisper.

"I know." His jaw flexes, like this pains him as much as it pains me. "But you have to. You're still on meds. You're still healing. You need a doctor."

"I can't." The panic leaks into my voice before I can stop it. "I hate it there."

Styles exhales slowly, looking ahead. "You'll get through it."

"You're leaving me," I choke out.

"I'm not leaving you," he says firmly. "I'm coming back tonight."

Tears sting my eyes. "You're lying."

His grip tightens, firm but steady. "I don't lie to you."

I cling to him harder, fingers curling into his shirt. "Don't go."

He glances down at me then, and for the first time, his composure slips. Something raw flickers across his face. He dips his head a little closer.

"I will come back," he says quietly, as if each word costs him something. "Tonight. After my shift. Before lights out. I promise you."

My breath hitches. "Promise?"

"Yes." His voice softens further. "You're safe. You won't ever be left behind, not by me."

I shut my eyes, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I hate that I believe him.

We pass through the quiet corridor, the security gate, the nurses' station. He moves like a ghost, slipping through blind spots with me in his arms.

Finally, we're back at my curtained-off cubicle. He lowers me gently onto the bed, careful of my leg. The mattress feels cold without his body heat.

He tucks the blanket around me with precise movements. His face is back to neutral now, like a mask clicking into place.

"I'll be back," he murmurs again.

I stare at him.

He leans in, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is fleeting but grounding. "Holton."

"What?"

"Breathe," he orders softly.

I do. Shaky, but I do.

"I'll see you soon," he says quietly, stepping back.

I can't stop the tears this time. They slip down my cheeks.

Styles freezes for a second, then crouches so he's level with me.

"Hey. None of that," he says, low. "You're okay."

"I'm not," I whisper.

"You will be."

My hands tremble as I reach for him. He catches them, holds them between his palms, thumbs brushing my knuckles like a steady metronome.

"I'll see you soon," he repeats.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to anchor myself to the warmth of his hands. Finally, after what feels like forever, I nod. I know he has to go. I know he's already broken so many rules.

He squeezes once more, then pulls away. "Good girl." The words are so soft I almost think I've imagined them.

And then he's gone.

_________________________

The day drags.

When the sun rises, the ward is bright and too loud and too quiet all at once. Nurses come and go. IV bags are swapped out, painkillers administered. My leg throbs constantly, a dull, hot ache.

I drift in and out of sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see my dad. The image hits sharp and merciless. Blood, stillness, the sound that left my throat.

So, I keep my eyes open.

At some point, a young nurse with kind eyes helps me into crutches so I can do a few laps of the corridor. "It'll help with circulation, and maybe your thoughts too" she says.

It doesn't. But at least it's movement.

Once I have the hang of it, the she leaves me to move on my own. I already know exactly where I'm going.

I hobble towards a cubicle at the end of the hall. Benson's room.

I pause outside it, pulse fluttering. I haven't seen her since everything happened.

I pull the curtain back gently.

She's sitting propped up in bed, one arm in a sling, staring out the window. Her hair is messy, face pale.

For a moment, she doesn't notice me.

Then she looks at me. "Holton?"

"Yeah." My voice comes out hoarse. "Can I...?"

She nods faintly. I move myself closer, perching carefully on the edge of her bed.

We sit there, side by side, silent.

What do you say in a moment like this? What do you say when so much has happened, so much has been lost?

"How are you?" I ask, eventually breaking the silence.

It seems like a silly question to ask, but I ask it all the same. The answer is important to me, no matter how hard it is to hear.

"I've been better," she begins, laughing gently. "The doctors said I've came off lucky. A broken arm, a few cracked ribs and a concussion I've only just manged to shift. I'm battered and bruised, but I think that's the least of my worries."

"What do you mean?" I ask gently.

"My body will heal, it's already happening. The dreams that wake me up screaming in the middle of the night, the flashbacks, the lingering terror and fear. Honestly, I don't know if I can ever heal from that," she explains.

I want to ask what happened to her, how she managed to carry on when it seemed like all hope was lost. But I don't.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me," I admit to her cautiously.

"What? Why wouldn't I?" she asks bewildered.

"Because..." I swallow hard. "We left you. We left the hostage site without you, maybe if we had waited five more minutes, maybe if we had-"

"Stop," she cuts me off, voice rough but steady. "Don't do that to yourself."

I stare at my hands in my lap. "You could've died."

"So could you," she says. "You found me. We're both still here. That's what matters."

I blink back tears. "I don't feel here."

"Me neither." She lets out a shaky breath. "But I'm trying."

We sit again. The silence feels different now. Not empty, but full of something. Shared exhaustion, maybe. Shared survival.

Finally, she glances at me. "I have to ask you something."

"Anything," I reply.

"Before I do, I want to remind you that I nearly died. I want to remind you that you saved my life. I want to tell you that you're my friend."

I look at her intently, unsure of where this is going.

"Styles," she says. "How long have you been together? And don't even bother denying it. I might have been concussed but I know what I saw."

I think back to the moments just before our extraction, before I saw my father.

I had seen the helicopter and lost my nerve.

"Thank you," I mutter, throat tight and eyes stinging.

"What for?" Styles asks bewildered.

"For everything. I'd have crashed out a long fucking time ago if I hadn't had you," I begin, tears threatening to spill.

"Are you giving me a fucking goodbye speech?" He asks, eyes wide.

"I don't know, it's just- well the chance of us all making it out alive is so low and I don't want you to feel any guilt if I'm kille-"

"Do not fucking finish that sentence," he cuts me off. He looks furious.

"Please just make sure you get out, and tell me mother that I loved her. My father and Jonah too-"

"Holton, stop talking," he speaks over me. Voice stern but low.

"You can just bin all of my things, nothing is special or sentimental-"

I'm cut off by Styles' mouth on mine.

He's kissing me.

I stare at Benson, not sure what to say. That all feels so long ago. I had no idea what was about to happen. That I'd never get that chance to tell my dad how much I loved him.

"I know Styles told me to never breathe a word of what I'd saw," Benson begins again. "And I won't. I won't ever tell a soul. But between me and you, please."

Heat creeps up my neck. I shouldn't even acknowledge it, but Benson and I are both different people now. I feel connected to her in a way I don't with anyone else here.

"We're not together as such," I admit. I face my reality, Styles and I have never really discussed what it is that we 'are'.

"It sure didn't seem that way," she pushes.

"He was my commanding officer... is my commanding officer," I correct. "He was the first person I ever met from this world. He put me through hell. He pushed me physically and mentally so hard, at times I thought he might break me. I'm not sure when the lines started to blur."

"When did blurriness become actions?" Benson asks softly.

"It was before I came here, I was still training. It was the final session. He didn't think he'd ever see me again, and we kissed." It feels strange admitting it out loud.

Benson is smiling. "And what? You came here and it just... didn't stop?"

I think back to when I first came here, and I laugh.

"Mmm, not quite. He was so angry. He hated me being here. It was complicated for both of us, but especially him. I don't blame him for the way he felt."

"Buttt..." Benson prompts.

"But nothing. I still don't think he's always that thrilled I'm here."

"But he kissed you, in front of me? You don't do that with someone you're not that thrilled about."

I get how it sounds. It seems like it should be black and white. But it's not.

I'm silent for a moment.

I finally settle on, "We have our moments."

She smiles.

"Well don't think for a second I'm buying that kissing is all you two have ever done," she says with a smirk.

This time I'm silent, and I stay that way.

She tilts her head, studying me. "You're different around him."

I don't answer.

Benson doesn't look away. "He's different around you, too."

The words hang between us. I grip the edge of the bed, pulse racing.

"I should get back," I murmur eventually.

She nods. "Come back tomorrow."

"I will."

As I stand up to leave, I glance back once. She's still looking out the window, but her shoulders seem a little less tight.