Chapter 8

Training Camp – Day 4

Morning came too fast. It always did.

I blinked blearily at the ceiling, feeling the familiar ache in my limbs from the past three days of training. My body is adjusting, but the exhaustion still lingers in my bones. I had felt particularly worn out after the adrenaline from my minor panic attack had worn off.

Around me, the others were stirring—Fairley mumbling something incoherent as she rubbed her face, Hawkins already on her feet, pulling on her boots with the kind of energy I wished I had at this hour. Kelso groans dramatically from his bunk.

"Anyone else feel like they've been hit by a truck? Or is that just me?"

"That's just you," Hawkins shot back, lacing up her boots. "You hit the ground harder than anyone else at training the other day. Think I actually saw your soul leave your body."

Jefferies chuckled, shaking his head.

Kelso sat up, rubbing his shoulder with a grimace. "No, but seriously, is it normal to feel like your spine has been rearranged? Because I think Styles knocked me into a new tax bracket."

Fairley snorts "It was your own fault. You literally ran at him like a lunatic."

"I was being tactical," Kelso corrects, pointing a finger at her. "It's not my fault he moves like he's in a damn action movie."

"Yeah, well, maybe don't try to take down a trained officer with the weight of a wet paper towel next time," Hawkins replies dryly.

"Lesson learned," Kelso mutters, stretching his arms with a wince.

I drag myself out of bed and ignore the stiffness in my back. As much as I want to dwell on yesterday—I know better.

It was another day. Another fight. Another test.

Before I could shake off the lingering tension from yesterday, Jefferies frowned as he scanned the room. "Where's Langford?"

I look around, only now noticing that one of the bunks was still made, untouched since last night.

"Sick," Hawkins informs, tightening her belt. "He was up half the night throwing up. Medics pulled him out early this morning."

Kelso groans. "Lucky bastard. Wish I could sit a day out."

Hawkins finishes tying her hair back and smirks. "One down. Think we'll lose another before the end of the week?"

"If Styles has anything to say about it, probably," I reply quietly.

A knock at the door cuts off the conversation, and a second later, it swings open. Styles stood in the doorway, scanning the room with his usual unreadable expression.

"On your feet. Let's go."

We follow Styles down into the medical tent, presumably where Langford spent most of his night. Inside, a few stretchers are folded against the walls, and a table in the centre holds neatly arranged bandages, splints, and other supplies.

"In case you're lacking critical thinking skills and haven't already deduced, today is first-aid training." Styles remarks. I felt my shoulders involuntarily drop slightly. I don't want to be complacent, but first aid training surely has to be better than getting thrown around a gym or forced to shoot a gun I can barely force myself to pick up.

"You might think this is a break," Styles begins – did that motherfucker just read my mind? "It isn't. First aid isn't about plasters and fucking sympathy. Out there, if you get shot, burned, or blown to pieces, you're not getting rushed to a hospital. You're patching yourself up until you can move, or you're keeping someone else breathing until help arrives. Fuck it up, someone dies. Simple as that."

I'm not stupid, of course I already knew this, but hearing it in Styles no-nonsense delivery really drives home the reality of what we will be facing. I notice Hawkins continuously shifting weight between each leg. Is she actually, nervous?

"Hands up if you're not good with blood?" he asks. Hawkins feverishly raises her hand. I knew it.

"Well then, you're going to fucking love this" he says with a wide grin. Once again, I'm sure it's actually a, rare, but genuine smile. Sadistic weirdo.

"We're starting today with bleeding control. If someone takes a hit, you need to stop the blood loss before they pass out, go into shock. Or die. That means pressure, elevation, and bandaging."

He grabs a roll of gauze and tosses it at Jefferies. "You, on Kelso. Try not to fuck it up."

As the recruits are paired off, I find myself standing alone. I look around awkwardly when Styles steps in front of me, holding out a bandage roll. He smiles, except this one is definitely not genuine.

"Guess you're with me, Holton. Try not to kill me, eh?" He raises his eyebrows.

My fingers brush against his as I take the bandage from him. His touch is warm, just as I had felt yesterday. He smirks slightly, like he notices my hesitation.

"Come on, soldier. I don't have all day." He groans, rolling his eyes.

I sigh before shifting my mindset into warzone mode. "Where's the wound?" I ask him.

Styles pats his bicep. "Upper arm. Bullet wound. Make it quick."

I step closer, ignoring the way my pulse jumps slightly. While I definitely won't compliment the man's personality, his body looks like it has been sculpted by the God's. His biceps are toned and defined, and while I haven't seen under his shirt, he is definitely sporting a six-pack.

Styles coughs quietly, his brows furrowed in confusion. Oh my god, was I staring?

I quickly unwind the bandage, tearing my imagination away from my C.O's abs. First aid is one thing I am not completely terrible at. I had picked up quite a bit in school. As I wrap the gauze around his arm, Styles barely moves, his gaze fixed on my face.

"Not bad," he murmurs, as he draws his eyes away from me and towards his own arm. "Tighter," he snaps.

I adjust the pressure, tying it off neatly.

"Like this?" I ask.

He hums, flexing his arm slightly. "Could be worse. Could be better."

I scoff quietly, rolling my eyes.

"Problem?" Styles asks. Shit. To him, I may as well have just told him to go fuck himself. I didn't mean to be rude, but I know that I bandaged up his imaginary injury fucking well. He hasn't even entertained the fact that Hawkins is boaking every time she even touches the bandage. If that had been me, he would have never let it go.

"No, sorry sir." I reply humbly.

"Nu-uh nice try. Sorry private, but you don't get to speak to me like that and then shit the bed when I ask you to explain. So, for you, I will repeat myself. Is there a problem?" he asks, his tone intimidating.

I hesitate, stumbling over words in my mind. I look up to make eye contact. But when I do, I notice he's smiling now. I don't have a clue what this type of smile means.

"Go on-" he jibes, "be brave for once. Tell me." He is almost, taunting me?

"You just don't like admitting I did it right" I blurt out. Oh my God.

His smile widens, and he begins to laugh. I notice a few of the recruits looking over, trying to look subtle and failing.

"I don't like admitting anything, Holton. But I'll give you this—you're better with bandages than you are with a gun."

I clench my jaw at the mention of the gun, but before I can fire back a response, he steps even closer, voice dropping just for me.

"But can you handle the real thing? Blood, guts, someone dying right in front of you? Or does your little panic switch flip like it did yesterday?" The smile is gone from his face, and he is so close I can feel his breath on mine. He's pushing, he wants me to bite. But I won't give him the satisfaction.

I don't break eye contact, nor move back from his presence. I simply force out the words, "I can handle it, sir."

Styles studies me for a beat, before finally he leans back, his usual teasing lilt returning. "Guess we'll find out."

He steps away, addressing the rest of the recruits.

"Next up, recognizing shock. If you can't tell when someone's going down, you're fucking useless to them."

I take advantage of my own space and thoughts without his invasion. I force myself to refocus. He begins to pair us off again, this type putting me with Kelso, taking on Private Hudson himself.

The lesson progresses relatively smoothly, and Styles doesn't acknowledge me again for the remainder.

This is just another lesson. Just another test.

So why does it feel like I'm playing a game I'm not sure I can win?