Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick never put much stock in words. Not the sentimental kind, anyway.

In his world, words were sharp-edged tools — commands barked under fire, coordinates muttered through static, final breathless goodbyes pressed into bloodied comms. They were functional. Brief. Efficient. He learned young that talking about feelings got you nowhere fast. And needing things — softness, comfort, affection — was a liability. Something you smothered, folded neatly into a dark corner of yourself until you forgot where you’d left it.

He never thought of himself as the needy type. He could go without — and often did. Months at a time. No warm beds, no soft touches, no familiar voice murmuring his name with anything but urgency. And love? Love was a battleground all its own. A quiet war, fought in gestures and guesses. But of all the ways people tried to show it — gifts, touches, loyalty — words were the cruelest. Because they were the hardest to speak, and the easiest to believe.

His exes had tried. They meant well, he thinks. Lavish birthday presents timed with his rare stretches of leave. Thoughtfully planned getaways to chase back time the job always stole. They folded laundry, stocked the fridge, kissed the stress from his brow without needing to be asked. And when he returned bone-tired and half-dreaming of battlefields, they greeted him with open arms and understanding.

And he liked that. Needed that, sometimes. The weight of a body next to his. Fingers brushing through his hair, mapping quiet paths across his scalp while he dozed. The steady rhythm of someone breathing beside him, proof that the world still had a heartbeat. He liked the comfort. He liked being held.

But deep down, something still ached. Something that no gift or perfect weekend could reach.

Because what Kyle craved most was something quieter. Smaller. More fragile.

An “I love you” murmured in the lull before dawn, still tangled in sheets. “I’m proud of you,” spoken like a secret when he achieved something he never mentioned aloud. A simple “Come back safe,” just as he’s walking out the door.

Those words — not loud, not monumental, not written in letters or carved into keepsakes — they were lifelines. Threads he could anchor himself to when the world spun too fast. Without them, even the grandest gestures felt hollow. Like a house with no walls. All appearance, no shelter.

Then there was you.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t chase his attention, didn’t play the part of someone trying to impress a soldier. You just… existed. Steady, sharp, always just a few steps ahead. You worked on base — admin, mostly — though the way you carried yourself made him think you’d seen more than paperwork. Your paths crossed often enough: a smirk across the briefing table, clipped nods in hallways, fingers brushing when you handed over mission folders with notes scribbled in the margins.

He noticed you. Of course he did. But he didn’t expect you to notice him.

And then — that morning.

He walked in half-frozen from the wind, uniform sharp, vest snug over a dark navy shirt that clung to him in all the right ways. He was running on adrenaline and caffeine, mind already chasing the day ahead, when he passed by your desk. You looked up mid-sip of your coffee and — without pause, without ceremony — said:

“You look good today, Kyle. That shirt suits you — brings out your eyes.”

And just like that, something in him fractured.

You said it so easily. So honestly. As if it wasn’t a landmine you’d just stepped on. As if words like that hadn’t been buried in his chest for years, starved for oxygen.

You went right back to your screen like nothing happened.

But Kyle? He stood frozen in place, every cell in his body straining toward the sound of your voice like it was a lifeline tossed into deep water. He could’ve kissed you right then. Could’ve promised you everything — not because you flirted or fawned, but because you saw him. Not the soldier. Not the uniform. Him.