Chapter 14

Training Camp – Day 10

I didn't sleep well at all last night. I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that's keeping me awake. Maybe it was Hawkins words yesterday, my interaction with Styles last night, or the fact that I know exactly where we are going today. The armoury.

My first time in the armoury was hell. I had a panic attack and showed myself off as the worst shooter in the pack. The last time I had been in the armoury I had been alone with Styles. I had opened up to him about my fears and he helped me face them. This time, I didn't know what to expect. Would Styles expect a big improvement from me after our session? Would I feel calmer, more in control of my fear? Would I have another panic attack? Would the other recruits have any more to say about my dynamic with Styles?

Cant. Be. Fucked.

______

When 6 o'clock finally arrives and Styles enters the dorm, I avoid eye contact with him. He announces, as expected, that today is weapons training.

______

When we arrive at the armoury, the overhead lights hum, casting sharp reflections off the weapons lined against the walls. Last time, I was suffocating under the weight of expectation, of fear. Now, there's something else pressing against my ribs—resentment? Shame? I'm not sure.

We move into formation, standing stiff as Styles stalks in front of us. His presence commands the room as it always does, but again, I refuse to meet his eye. The memory of yesterday's accusations clings to me, heavy like a second skin. Getting by on flirting. The words had burned, had sat like rot in my gut all night. I won't give them another excuse to say it – panic or not.

Styles surveys the room, his eyes lingering on me for a fraction too long. I hold my ground, keeping my expression blank. If he notices, he doesn't show it.

"Since you managed to avoid shooting yourselves last time, we're moving on," Styles announces. His voice is low, laced with amusement. "Today, we'll be focusing on rapid response and accuracy under pressure." He turns, walking to the far end of the room where targets have been set up. "If you can't handle a weapon under stress, you're a liability. And I don't keep liabilities."

Hawkins cracks her knuckles. Kelso shifts on his feet, buzzing with energy. I keep my arms crossed, focusing on my breathing. I can do this. I've done it before—with him.

"As always, I'll demonstrate how it should be done. On my command, you will come and stand face-to-face with the target. With your gun lowered by your side, you're going to wait for the sound of the beep," he says, directing us with his head over to a machine in the corner. "Only then, can you shoot. You won't know when it's coming, but that's the point. How quickly can you raise your weapon, and steady yourself to aim, without compromising your own safety by waiting too long? There is no room for hesitation. When you hear the beep, you shoot. If you hear a second beep, and you haven't taken a shot yet? Too slow, your dead." He pauses for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.

"So, I'm looking for two things here, simple really. Take your shot before your opponent takes theirs, and for fucks sake, make sure you don't miss."

With that he turns to face the target, weapon by his side. He stands relaxed and his breathing is steady. We all watch him attentively. Without warning, the sound of the beep echoes around the room. Without hesitation, Styles pulls his gun up with an extended arm. His core is tight and his stance perfect. He pulls the trigger. His bullet lands a direct hit on the target's forehead. He has already lowered his weapon by the time the second beep comes. He may be many things, but nobody can discredit his skills. He turns back to face us.

"Your turn" he says, raising his eyebrows and smirking.

We all turn and head to pick up our weapons. I try to keep my hands steady as I pick up the gun. My fingers tremble slightly, but I ignore it, focusing on the task at hand.

Styles hovers just behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. He doesn't speak immediately, but I can sense him watching, measuring. He knows. He knows what this gun does to me, how it makes my heart race and my thoughts scatter. But I won't give him the satisfaction of showing it.

"You've got this, Holton," Styles murmurs, his voice low and barely audible. "Focus. Don't let the gun control you. No hesitations."

I can't respond. The words are comforting, but I don't want to show weakness. Not here. Not in front of them. I force a sharp nod, even though I can feel the flutter in my chest.

We all stand in front of a target. I am glad that we are all shooting at the same time. Less chance for any unwanted attention to fall on me. Everyone will be too busy worrying about themselves.

I watch Styles as he resets the machine.

"It's all on you now," he addresses the group. "When you hear the beep, you know what to do."

I wait. I'm not sure if I will hear anything over the sound of my heart beat. Focus.

And then, it happens. The high-pitched noise rings out.

I raise the gun, trying to steady my hands, but everything feels off. My pulse thunders in my ears, and I can't seem to focus. The gun feels like a weight on my arm, threatening to pull me under. Cmon. Shoot.

I can hear gunshots sounding around me as the recruits begin to pull the triggers. It only unsettles me further.

"Holton, focus!" Styles commands, stepping closer, his voice loud. "You're overthinking."

The words slice through the panic, but they also spark a flare of irritation. I don't want his attention right now. I don't want to be the one who's constantly singled out. I don't want to be the recruit who gets treated differently just because Styles might feel the need to "help."

"I'm fine," I snap, my tone sharper than I intend. "Just let me focus."

For a moment, I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, but he hides it quickly. I can feel the tension in his posture. Maybe he's suspecting something. I don't know. He's always good at reading people, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing the truth.

I squeeze the trigger. The machine beeps.

Styles walks away from me. "Well done, you all managed to avoid being killed by your opponent. Just." He looks at me, but I lower my gaze to the floor. "But this is a 2-part trial. Let's see who managed to successfully land a shot."

He moves down the line, giving feedback to us one by one. I can't hear much of it, until he arrives to Langsford, who is directly to my right.

"Not bad private, you hit the target at least. But you fired your shot almost immediately. Although speed is important, it's useless shooting fast if you're not going to do any damage. Slow down next time." He coaches. Langsford listens intently, nodding in response as Styles moves on... to me.

I haven't even looked at my shot yet. I turn my head to analyse. I can't see any mark on the target. I missed.

"Hmm, pulling the trigger is an improvement I suppose" Styles says, his voice tinged with his usual cocky edge. "But you're still holding back. You need to push past that fear. Don't let it control you."

I don't respond. I turn away, determined to ignore him, to ignore the way his words make the panic simmer just beneath the surface. I'm not going to be the recruit who gets special treatment. I won't be that recruit who's coddled. I can do this on my own.

"How did you find that?" he asks, ignoring my body language.

"Fine," I say again, more forcefully this time.

Styles doesn't answer immediately, but I can see the tension in his jaw. I know he's frustrated, maybe even irritated. Maybe he suspects why I'm shutting him down, but he doesn't know for sure. And that's the way it needs to stay. I'm not going to let him make this about me and him. This is about me proving myself to the rest of the recruits, proving that I can stand on my own.

"Alright," he finally says, his voice tight with restrained irritation. "Fairley," he starts, as he continues to move down the line of recruits.

I step back into the line, trying to steady my breath. My hands are still trembling slightly, but I push through it. I'm not going to let them see me fail. Not now. Not ever.

_____

The session continues, and we repeat the drill a few more times. Out of 5 attempts, only 1 of mine has actually hit the target. I grazed the left side of my imaginary enemy's arm. When Styles had reached me each time to give feedback, it was generic. He didn't ask questions and there was nothing motivational about it. When I finally hit the target, there was no congratulations. Maybe, he's finally taken a hint.

______

When the session was over, Styles had dismissed us as usual. I felt surprisingly happy with how today had gone. No panic attack, and nobody seemed to draw me any looks or make any under breath comments.

The sound of plates clattering against the sink fills the quiet of the barrack mess. I'm on dish duty tonight, scrubbing away in silence. My hands are raw from the soap, but I barely notice. I'm grateful for the quiet and the opportunity to get away from the recruits. I know I'm holding a bit of a grudge, but I don't really care. Their words stung.

I hear the door creak open behind me, the familiar footsteps of Styles cutting through the stillness. I try not to let it disturb my peace. He'll get his food and leave me to clean up after everyone. I don't care. I just want to be left alone.

Holton," his voice rings out, low and steady, making me flinch. He doesn't sound angry, not really. Just... probing. "You on dish duty?

I don't turn around. I just focus on the suds in front of me.

"Looks like it doesn't it?" I reply.

There's a brief pause, and I can almost feel the shift in the air as Styles steps closer, his presence just behind me, looming. I've gotten used to it over the past days—his shadow, always there, always watching. But tonight, it's different. There's an intensity to his silence that's almost... knowing.

He lets out a laugh, but it's not genuine.

"Okay, either you think it's acceptable to talk to me like that, or you don't care whether it's acceptable or not. Now I know, that you know, it's not acceptable. I also don't have you pegged as a brat. So, what's with the attitude?" He spits out. No more nice Styles clearly.

I let out a sharp breath, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. The last thing I want to do is open up to him, not after what happened earlier.

"Nothing," I mutter, scrubbing harder at a stubborn plate. "Just a long day."

"Is that so?" Styles presses, and I hear the scrape of a chair as he pulls it out, sitting down. He's not moving. Not leaving me alone. I can't get away from him, not here.

I bite my lip, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling up. "Look, I don't need a lecture. I'm sorry about my tone."

He's silent for a beat, and I can feel him studying me, the weight of his gaze pressing against my back.

"Do you think I was born yesterday?" Styles says finally, his voice quieter, more serious. "You might fool the others, but you're not fooling me. I've seen the way you've been acting—towards me, towards the rest of the recruits."

I turn around, meeting his gaze for the first time since he entered, my face hardening. "I don't know what you're talking about."

There's a flicker of something in his eyes—something sharp, like he's been waiting for me to say that.

"Don't try to play me, Holton," he says, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. I hear him sigh, and it's not the sound of someone annoyed. It's more like the sound of someone who's been waiting for this moment, even if he didn't want to admit it. Styles leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at me with a hard, unreadable gaze.

"You think you're the only one who's been misunderstood here?" His voice drops, a little colder now, but with a sharp edge that cuts through the tension in the room. "They're loosing respect for me over something that hasn't happened. I know you're trying to prove something, Holton. But let me be clear, you're not getting anything for free here."

I can feel my resolve melting. My anger and irritation are replaced with vulnerability. What's the point in acting like this isn't the problem, when he already knows it is. I can feel the expression on my face change and Styles' matches my change in attitude, softening slightly.

"Do you think I treat you differently?" he asks.

I hesitate, unsure of how to respond. It's true—he has been different with me. His words, his attention. But also, I don't think I've had any unfair advantages.

"I just want to prove myself," I finally admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "I want to be successful. Not because of you, not because of anyone. I don't want to be that person who gets by on..." I trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence. "I want to be the one who earns it. And I'm not going to do that if I'm just..." I trail off again. I've never stumbled over my words quite so hard.

He maintains eye contact with me. "I'm not playing favourites. But if you don't get your head on straight, it's not just going to be the other recruits who get frustrated with you."

I open my mouth, but the words get stuck in my throat. I want to argue, to push back, but I can't. Not when everything he's saying feels so damn true. I don't respond. The weight of his words hangs in the air between us, making everything else seem small in comparison. The tension feels like a physical thing, like I could reach out and touch it.

Finally, he stands, taking a step closer. "You don't have to like it. But trust me when I say I'm trying to help. That's all I'm trying to do. Stop worrying so much about everyone else, let me handle them."

All I can do is nod, the weight of his harsh words still heavy on my chest.

He gives me a brief look, almost like he's studying me, before turning to walk away. "I'll see you in the morning."

Just like that, he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I stand there, still holding the plate, unsure of what to do next.