Chapter 56

Over the next week I fall into a routine. Each day I visit Benson in her room. At first, it was tears and trauma. But as the days progress, we spend less time as two colleagues ruminating on the events that unfolded, and more time as friends. Each day we cry less and laugh more. We're in no way healed, at least not mentally anyway, but it's something.

When I'm not with Benson, I'm slowly but surely increasing the distance I walk. I'm also much more stable without my crutches. I notice a few other soldiers visit Benson during the day. No one comes for me, but I've realised I'm okay with that. Apart from Jefferies of course. He's visited twice. Just seeing him is enough to put a smile on my face. He tells me stories of the jobs he attends or drills he completes. While I listen to his stories, I think maybe I'm happier to be on a ward than out in the field.

And Styles. What was supposed to be a one-off pity sleepover has become part of our schedules. Each night, after my last doctors' round, he comes to visit. We both pretend that its only a visit, and he'll return to base himself. But each night, when it's time for him to go, he sneaks me into base and into his room. I'm always returned safely to my bed before the sun comes up.

___________

"The nurse told me she thinks I'm going to be discharged tomorrow," I say quietly, head resting on Styles' naked chest. Like usual, he had snuck me out and into his room. He hadn't bothered to put up a fight about sleeping on the floor after the first night, so this drowsy pillow talk had become somewhat routine. It allowed me to fall into sleep without being haunted by visions of my fathers' dead body. Of course, sometimes I'd be plagued by nightmares and dreams, but being able to sleep at all was a win.

"That's good, you'll be glad," he replies, the vibrations of his voice travelling through his chest onto my cheek pressed against him.

"I guess," I respond timidly.

"What? Do you not feel ready? I can speak to the doctors if you think you need more treatment," Styles suggests, instinctively jumping into protector role.

"Yeah, I'm sure they'd take kindly to you offering medical advice for a girl you're not even supposed to have been seeing," I say, laughing softly.

"Well, I was there when you got shot, was I not? I'm perfectly well placed to give anecdotal evidence to your medical state."

I glance up at him, expecting him to have the sarcastic grin on his face. But he doesn't. He's being deadly serious.

"Relax Dr dramatic, my leg is much better," I say.

"Then what's wrong," he asks, concern plastered over his face. When did this become our reality?

"I suppose it means returning back to my idea of hell. Let's be honest, I was never a great soldier in the first place. But I can't imagine going back into the field now. Fuck, you thought I had a hesitation problem before? I feel like I've lost all the confidence I was beginning to build," I admit candidly.

"Holton, as much as I love your enthusiasm, you aren't going back to the field anytime soon," Styles says with a soft smile.

"I'm not?"

"No. My role as a commanding officer here is varied. I strategise, control, lead ops, provide training, but I'm also responsible for every soldier under my care. That includes you. I already told you, everyone on that op has been given some time out of the field to psychologically recover. A fucked-up soldier is a liability. Or a dead one. Each of us were offered some form of trauma counselling," he explains.

"You were?" I ask.

"Don't get me wrong now. This is an army surviving on conscription, I wouldn't be expecting too much, but it was offered none the less. Of course, nobody took them up on it," Styles continues.

"What? Why?"

"Holton, this is not new to me. What happened last week was very much another day at the office. When I first trained to be a soldier, you don't just spend all your time in the gym. They train you to be mentally strong too. Seeing a body, taking a life, it doesn't affect me the way it would others. The same goes for Clarke and Hanley too."

"Even after his injury, Hanley didn't want it either?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"No. To be honest, it wouldn't go down well around the camp. If people found out you were avoiding field work by receiving counselling, you'd be spending a few dinner times sitting by yourself."

"But it's not avoiding field work," I say exasperated, "It's processing trauma."

"Listen I hear you, and I don't disagree. It's fucked up. But it's the way it is. Somebody could kill my best mate in front of me on the field, and I'd be back on op the next day. It's a mindset."

"It's toxic," I quip back.

He just shrugs in response.

"So, everyone's going to expect me back out soon then?" I ask quietly.

"No, while we were debriefing I said that as your C.O, and given your status as a conscripted solider, I wouldn't feel comfortable taking you out on an op again until you had physical rehabilitation for your leg, but also some trauma counselling."

"And?" I ask nervously.

"They agreed. It'll be arranged when you get discharged," he says quietly. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, of course," I reassure him, "I always trust your judgment anyway."

The conversation trails off there, and my mind begins to wander. If I am discharged tomorrow, this is our last night like this. The last time I'll probably see him in his own setting, where his guard is down, even if only a little. The last time I'll sleep easy, coaxed by the rhythm and warmth of his chest.

"You always do that," Styles hums quietly.

"Do what?" I ask, already wary.

"Start spiralling the second things go quiet." His thumb shifts slightly where it rests against the mattress, close enough that I'm very aware of it. "You fill the silence with worst-case scenarios."

"How can you tell?"

He tilts his head, unimpressed.

"Holton, you've been staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you for the last five minutes."

"You're exaggerating," I scoff.

"Am I?" His mouth quirks, arrogant as ever. "Because from where I'm lying, you look like you're two seconds away from talking yourself into a catastrophe."

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, shifting slightly.

"You always do that too," he says smugly.

"Ugh what now?" I say, rolling my eyes.

He turns his head towards me properly now, eyes sharp, assessing. "You tell me I don't know what I'm talking about, every time I hit the mark. That's how I know I'm always right."

"You always think you're right," I defend.

"Hey, you're a natural worrier, I'm not judging you," he says, softening the conversation slightly.

"I don't know how I'm meant to just... go back," I admit. "Everyone's going to expect me to be the same. And I'm not. And the worst bit is, I can't tell anyone why. No one is going to know I'm grieving, they're just going to think I'm weak."

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. A pause. Then, more pointedly, "They're not."

"You don't know that."

"I do," he says, confidence slipping neatly into place. "Because I won't let them."

I glance up. "You can't control everything."

A corner of his mouth lifts. "No. But I can control more than you think."

There's something deliberate in the way he says it, so assured. Grounded. It instantly makes me relax, against my better judgement.

I open my mouth to argue, then stop when I realise how close we are. We're not touching, not quite, but close enough that I can feel his breath. Where we always lying this way, or did we get closer and I haven't even realised?

He notices the hesitation instantly.

"There," he murmurs. "That's what I mean. You overthink, then freeze."

"I do not-"

"You do." His tone turns coaxing, low. "Just breathe. You don't have to perform or prove anything right now."

"You really enjoy analysing me, don't you?" I huff.

"Only because you make it so easy, everything you think is written all over your face," he teases.

I shoot him a look, but there's no real bite behind it. "You're such a dick sometimes."

"Please sneak me back to your room, please don't leave me here," Styles begins, imitating me with a high-pitched voice. My jaw drops in shock. He continues "Oh Styles, you'll have to come back for me, promise me-"

I gently smack his chest, scoffing loudly.

"What?" he says, bursting out with laughter. "Are those not your words? I can't be that much of a dick if you need me so badly."

"I was on morphine you asshole, I can't be held responsible for anything I said," I protest weakly, knowing he has me hook, line and sinker.

"Were you on morphine tonight when I came to get you? Cause you gave me the same spiel then" he asks, eyebrow raised, smile unbearable.

That lands closer to home than I expect. I've become dependent on him, injury aside. I shift nervously, my shoulder brushing his chest. That was accidental, I tell myself, even as I don't immediately move away.

He notices. Of course he does.

"See?" he murmurs. "You say one thing, and then your body does another."

"You make it sound like a little touch is such a big deal."

"It's not," he replies quickly, "Just unfamiliar territory... for you."

I start to protest, but the words snag when he shifts slightly closer. It's him making the move this time. It's not much, but it's enough to make me acutely aware of the warmth between us, of how little space there really is.

"Relax," he says quietly.

His hand shifts, slow and deliberate, settling more securely at your side. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just there. Anchoring.

I don't pull away.

For a moment, neither of us speak. His gaze searches mines, assessing, checking. He's giving me space to retreat if I want to.

I don't.

His hand trails lower, resting on my bum.

His mouth curves, subtle and knowing. "See?" he murmurs. "You're braver than you think."

I bite my lip gently.

"Look at me," he commands, though voice still gentle.

His expression has shifted. He's still confident, still maddeningly composed, but there's an edge of restraint there, like he's holding himself back.

"You know I'm not going to do anything you don't want," he says evenly. "But I need to know you're not just going along with this because you think you should."

My chest tightens. "I'm not."

"Not because you're scared of being alone," he adds. "Not because you think you owe me."

I swallow. "I don't."

His gaze searches mine, slow and deliberate, and I know he's reading me.

His hand shifts slightly, not roaming, but the pressure increases.

"You're allowed to want things, Holton."

"I know," I mumble quietly.

"I'm not sure you do," he replies.

Unsure of what to say, I let silence take over.

I do want things.

I want him.

His hand begins to move, as he squeezes my bum lightly. I can see the outline of his erection, growing under his shorts.

"Tell me what you want," he instructs, voice low.

Nerves take over, my mouth feels dry.

"Come on, you've done it before," he tries to coax. "Whatever it is you want, you can have."

The words hang between us, heavier than he probably intends them to be.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he continues.

"I'm thinking, you don't have girls in here. You told me that already," I remind him, intrigued of what he has to say.

"God, if only you were so observant when I'm explaining how to use a gun," he huffs dramatically.

I don't let him change the subject.

"You don't bring girls here," I say.

"It's easier," he says, voice low, controlled, "to keep things clean when there's a door between you and the rest of your life. Stops anybody getting too attached."

I swallow. 

"So where does that leave us?"

"That's the million-dollar fucking question isn't it," he says honestly. 

For once, it me who can read him. His mind is going a million miles an hour.

My pulse picks up.

"I get it, if you want to keep the door closed," I say genuinely. I don't want him to feel like he doesn't have a choice.

"Let's be honest Holton, regardless of what happens tonight, you already opened that door a long fucking time ago," he says, pressing his lips together, almost wincing at his own admission. "Shit, you didn't open it, you kicked it off its fucking hinges."

My heart is racing.

"I don't kiss girls unless it means I'm going to be able to fuck them, I certainly don't give out unless I know I'll get to receive," he begins, and my mind wanders to all of the moments we've shared. "And I have never, ever, given a second thought to somebody getting shot in front of me. Until it happened to you."

His eyes are glossy, and I've never seen him look so vulnerable. I've never seen this side to him. I've never heard him be so honest.

He studies me, long and hard. But I keep quiet, I let him say what needs to be said.

"I don't do this," he says quietly. "Not like this. I don't... plan. I don't stay. I don't let it mean anything more than the moment."

"And?" I whisper.

"And this already does."

"You asked me what I want," I begin. "I want to have sex." I breath out deeply at the admission,  my lungs suddenly feeling short of air. "Not because I owe you, not because I'm looking for some emotional fix, but because I want you to fuck me."

"I don't want to do this and then realise you expected more than I can give," he says softly.

I swallow, but I don't look away.

"You really think I'm that fragile?"

"No," he says immediately. "I think you're... intense. And smart. And you feel things deeply." His mouth twitches. "Dangerous combination."

"I've had sex before," I say laughing quietly, "I'm not expecting you to all of a sudden forget your job, your personality. I know who you are here. I know what boundaries, control, your role means to you."

His eyes flicker. It's not disbelief, but conflict.

"You say that now."

"I mean it," I insist, quieter but firmer. "You're not the first man I've wanted. And you won't be the first one I've slept with."

That lands.

His gaze sharpens, something territorial and unwanted flickering there before he reins it in. He exhales through his nose.

"Christ," he mutters. "You really don't pull your punches."

"I'm just saying, don't make this bigger than it has to be." I hesitate, then add softly, "You're not the only one choosing here."

"God, how the roles have reversed, am I the virgin?" he laughs.

"No, you're just a good man. But for the avoidance of all doubt, I'm doing this because I want to. Because we're here. Because we have a bed, and privacy, and walls thick enough that no one's going to hear a thing." I hesitate, then add, a little bolder, "And because pretending we don't feel this is getting exhausting."

Something in him shifts. When he speaks again, the rawness is still there, but it's wrapped in familiar arrogance, like armour sliding back into place. His thumb drags slowly against my hip, grounding, deliberate.

"Soundproof walls, huh?" he says lightly. "You've really thought this through."

Heat creeps up my neck.

"Now say it again," he adds, "tell me you want me."

Authors Note:

First of all, happy new year! 2026 baby!! How the fuck did that happen then?

Second of all, and most importantly, I am SO sorry it has been so long. Not that anybody asked or cares, but my life has been so fucking all over the place recently, I just haven't had any spare brain space to write this. Currently writing this extremely hungover on what has become a very rare day off. I promise you though, no matter how long I fuck off for, the story isn't and won't be abandoned. I already have the next chapter written and ready to be published tomorrow to say sorry ;) 

Thank you if you're still sticking with me, hopefully reading the last chapter or two will help you to jump straight back in. 

I hope all you had a peaceful holiday period however you celebrate, and let's make 2026 the best one yet. 

Love you all, Blaire x