Ch-5

The medic began carefully removing the shards, tweezers glinting under the light, and the sting crept in sharp with every twitch of metal on flesh. You didn’t flinch. Not once. But Dan? He watched every damn movement like he wanted to rip the entire med wing apart if you so much as winced.

Blood beaded, bright and angry. The room smelled of iodine and control hanging on a thread.

The medic muttered, “It’ll scar.”

Dan cut in immediately, voice flat. “I know. Clean it, dress it. Double up on the wrap. She's going back out.”

The medic blinked. “Sir, she needs rest—”

“I said,” Dan snapped, “double the wrap.”

The tone shut the medic up instantly.

Once your hand was bandaged—tight, reinforced, but steady—Dan crouched down in front of you, hands on his knees. His voice dropped. That low, quiet thunder of someone trying very hard to keep himself from losing it.*

“You walk in here with scent blockers and pride so thick I’m surprised it didn’t choke you on day one. Then you go full executioner on a private who thought his dick had clearance.”

He exhaled slowly. Pulled a pair of gloves from his belt. Slapped them into your lap.

“From now on—glove up when you’re in the mess. That hand’s out of action for combat drills for 48 hours. You wanna punch someone, use your elbow.”

Then a pause.

His eyes narrowed. Sharpened.

“And you’re walking with me to every meal from now on. That’s not protection, it’s logistics. You draw eyes like a flame draws moths—and this camp? It’s full of the dumbest fucking moths I’ve ever seen.”

He stood, nodded to the medic, then looked back at you one last time.

“…You break another plate on someone, you better save one piece to stab him with. Waste not.”

Then, colder, to the guard outside the door—

“Bring the bastard’s badge to me when he wakes up. He’s done here.”

The afternoon sun scorched the base like it was testing who’d flinch first. Heat shimmered off the concrete, sweat clung to every soldier’s skin, and the air tasted like metal, dust, and discipline.

The line was strict. Uniforms damp with sweat, boots planted, chests up. No talking. No slouching.

And then—there was you.

Standing tall in line, chin slightly raised, eyes forward like you weren’t just enduring it—you were owning it. Face calm. Poised. That flawless skin somehow refusing to melt under the sun like the rest of them. Even as sweat traced the line of your jaw and glistened down your neck, you looked more like a portrait than a soldier.

Gorgeous. Untouchable. Deadly calm.

It infuriated the others.

Snickers and stares rippled down the row like nervous ticks. Some tried to hide their looks behind dark shades. Others didn’t even bother. A few elbows nudged each other, muttering under breath.

“Who the hell does she think she is?”

“Looks like a goddamn model at a funeral.”

“She even sweat pretty?”

And then—boots crunched on gravel.

Dan.

He strode out across the dirt, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand, dog tags swinging against his chest. His eyes flicked down the line. Cold. Calculating. Assessing.

Until they landed on you.

A pause.

Longer than it should’ve been.

You stood like the sun answered to you, not the other way around.

Dan’s jaw flexed. Then he snapped his fingers.

“You.”

He pointed straight at you.

“Front. Now.”

The line held its breath. Someone actually whispered, “Shit.”

As you stepped forward, your heels clicking lightly against the training ground, he watched every step—his face a wall of stone.

When you reached him, he leaned in, voice low, sharp as a blade behind closed teeth:

“You came here to survive, not win a fucking beauty pageant. So stop glowing and start sweating.”

A beat.

Sofia think in her mind," what him problem, do he want my to put acid on my face to make ugly" 😐

He looked you dead in the eye.

“…Let’s see if you’re still pretty after five laps and combat drills. Go.”

And just like that—he turned. But the shadow of a smirk flickered on his lips as he walked off

she in thinking " do the iceberg just smile 😶"

By hour five, the sun had mellowed just enough to stop feeling like fire—but the dust? The dust clung to every inch of the field like it had sworn an oath to make people miserable.

Soldiers were panting, some keeled over with hands on knees, soaked through and red-faced. A few cursed under breath. One even puked behind a water tank and tried to hide it.

And then—there was you.

Coming in from your fifth lap.

Not staggering.

Not crawling.

Just… walking.

Like you were arriving fashionably late to a runway show that happened to be held on a military base. Sure, your shirt clung to your back, collar damp, your arms shining faintly under the light coat of sweat—but your steps? Still steady. Still silent. Still controlled.

Even the sweat couldn’t dim you. If anything, it made it worse for them. You looked like sweat was your damn highlighter—like you chose to glisten.

A few jaws dropped. One guy actually stumbled while watching you walk past.

“Fucking hell,” someone muttered behind you. “She’s not real.”

“Bet she’s not even tired,” another grunted.

“Doesn’t even breathe like a human—"

“—Enough.”

Dan’s voice cut across the yard like a blade.

He stood at the edge of the track, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his nose, watching you approach. The wind caught his jacket just enough to make him look like he walked straight out of a recruitment poster.

When you reached him, he tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging over your frame like he was recalculating every assumption he ever made about you.

“You finished?” he asked, neutral.

You didn’t respond with drama. Just a nod. Like this wasn’t war—just another task done.

Dan’s jaw flexed. Again.

He stepped a little closer. Quiet. Just low enough for only you to hear:

“…Five laps. Five hours. No collapse. No excuses.”

A pause.

“You’re either lying about your biology… or you’re the most dangerous omega I’ve ever seen.”

He turned to walk away—

Then added over his shoulder, dry as bone:

“Hit the showers. And for fuck’s sake—try looking tired, would you?”

*But the ghost of a smirk—*that little twitch at the corner of his lips—gave him away.