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The quarters smelled different from the city you had left behind, brine from the sea mixed with the metallic tang of drills, the rhythmic clang of boots striking pavement in formation, and the sharp calls of officers echoing across the training fields.
Whistles blew in the distance, commands barked, and the crack of rifles from the practice range carried faintly through the air.
You clutched your mother’s hand tightly as the movers hauled in your boxes, eyes darting about at the neat rows of brick houses, the clipped grass, the flags snapping in the sea breeze.
Children ran in groups through the open spaces, their laughter clashing against the rigid backdrop of discipline.
It felt strange. New. Too big for your seven-year-old chest.
You didn’t want to be here.
You missed your solo adventures in your old neighbourhood, the crooked alleyways, the little wildflowers you picked from the cracks in the pavement, the secret corners only you knew. Here, everything felt contained, controlled, polished until there was no room for wonder.
And though your parents smiled warmly, speaking of how good this move would be, all you could think was: I didn’t want to leave.
Then you saw them—the Bensons.
A tall man in uniform with a sharp posture and a voice that carried like thunder. His wife stood beside him, her smile warm and welcoming, drawing your parents into easy conversation.
And just behind them, leaning with the careless air of a boy too close to manhood, was someone who caught your gaze at once. Lanky, broad-shouldered despite his youth, with untidy hair that fell across his brow and eyes that seemed sharper than any other seventeen-year-old’s.
“Frank,” his father barked, tone clipped. “Help them carry their things.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved forward, stepping as though each stride were already a soldier’s. He bent and lifted a trunk that looked impossibly heavy, the muscles in his arms flexing not in show but in work.
You gawked, your small jaw nearly dropping at the effortless way he balanced the weight.
He glanced over, catching your wide eyes peeking from behind your mother’s skirts.
“First time here?” His voice was deeper than you expected, steady and serious, but not unkind.
You nodded.
“Don’t just stand there, shadow,” he said with a smirk. “Come on, walk with me. You can keep watch while I carry this.”
And just like that, without knowing it, you became his shadow.
The days that followed blurred into a new rhythm. His family invited yours for dinners, walks, and laughter in the evenings when the officers were finally off duty.
While your parents and his spoke easily, you always found your gaze wandering to Frank. He wasn’t like the other boys your age, loud and restless. He carried himself differently, serious, determined, almost untouchable.
At first, you trailed after him shyly, keeping distance. Once, you even tried hiding behind a tree, thinking he wouldn’t notice. But when he rounded the corner of the barracks, his voice rang out:
“Come out, little shadow. You’re not half as invisible as you think.”
You stepped out, pouting, and he only ruffled your hair before walking on, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to have a seven-year-old trailing him everywhere.
Other children tugged at your hands, begging you to join games of tag, marbles, and hopscotch. But you always slipped away after a few minutes. They felt noisy, silly, and immature. With Frank, you felt safe.
You felt like you belonged.
When he went for runs at dawn, you trotted behind, your tiny legs scrambling to keep pace until he slowed just enough to let you. When he dropped to the ground for push-ups, you copied him, elbows wobbling, body collapsing after only three before you whined into the dirt.
He’d laugh, quiet but warm, before nudging you back up with his foot.
“Up, little shadow. Again. Don’t give up now.”
When he studied in the evenings, bent over maps and reports his father left for him to practice, you perched across the table with your own schoolbooks. You scribbled through math problems, sometimes peeking at him as he muttered through strategy drills under his breath.
If you finished quickly, you’d pretend to copy him, drawing little arrows and circles on your paper like you, too, were planning something great.
Sometimes, your eyes grew heavy and you slumped over your notebook, cheek pressed to the table. Frank would sigh, long-suffering but gentle, and carefully scoop you up into his arms. He’d carry you back to your parents’ door, knock once, and vanish before you were stirred awake.
And though you were only seven, something about him, his steadiness, his quiet strength, the way he never once pushed you away, burrowed deep inside you.
To you, Frank Benson wasn’t just the neighbour’s son. He was safe. He was home. He was everything.
Ten years later.
Frank Benson at twenty-seven was everything a soldier was meant to be. His shoulders bore medals and scars alike, his presence alone commanding respect. Yet when his eyes landed on you, when that rare smirk tugged at his mouth, when he still, sometimes, called you “little shadow”, your chest filled with warmth that discipline couldn’t stomp out.
You and Frank had your rituals. No matter how busy training left you, one of you always waited for the other. At the mess hall, you shared your meals in the quiet corner, your conversations ranging from tactics to silly childhood memories.
After evening drills, you’d walk together, trading plans for the future. He, determined to rise as a strategist in the Army. You, eager to take to the seas like your own father, the wind and waves calling you like an open field.
Your parents teased you both endlessly, your mother with sly smirks, your father with booming laughter. Even Frank’s mother had once ruffled your hair and said, “The shadow has grown into her own soldier.”
It was easy to imagine things staying that way forever.
Until she arrived.
Her name was Sierra. Her family moved into the quarters when her father was reassigned, not directly under Frank’s father’s command, but close enough to circle the same community. You first saw her at the community hall, where everyone gathered to welcome them. You were minding your business by the drink table when Sierra herself approached.
“You must be Y/N,” she said warmly, smiling dazzlingly, voice full of easy charm. “The Bensons talk about you all the time.”
The words caught you off guard, and you replied. She laughed at your awkward answer, admired your Navy salute, and even linked arms with you as though you’d been friends forever. And you couldn’t help but like her. She was kind, gracious, and sincere.
You liked her. Truly, you did. Which made it all the worse. Because then you saw Frank look at her.
It was supposed to be your time, your ritual, meeting after training. But that evening, you found him with Sierra instead, leaning casually against the fence while she spoke. His expression softened in a way you hadn’t seen in years, like every word she spoke mattered.
You froze, throat tight, but didn’t leave right away.
“You’ve adjusted well,” Frank was saying, tone warm, too warm.
Sierra’s laugh followed, soft and easy. “Thanks to you. You make this place feel less…” she trailed off, searching.
“Lonely?” Frank supplied, and you hear the smile in his voice.
“Exactly,” she replied, almost shyly.
That’s enough. Your stomach twists. The words repeat in your head as you walk away, barely holding yourself together. Something in the tone, almost tender, split your chest open.
You plastered a smile, turned back into the shadows, and pretended you hadn’t heard a thing.
At dinner that week, Sierra’s family joined yours. Your father teased lightly, “Benson, seems your boy’s taken a liking to the new arrival.” But Frank didn’t even hear it, he was too busy sitting across from you, Sierra tucked beside him, both sharing quiet smiles.
Your fork froze halfway to your lips, heat crawling up your neck. Your mother’s gaze flicked toward you, softened, then slid away as though she couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. Frank’s mother squeezed your hand under the table, silent, knowing, helpless.
It hurt worse than anything. Because they all saw it.
And Sierra, she was never cruel. She noticed that when you lingered at the edges, she drew you into conversations with warmth. Sometimes you almost believed she meant it, but it was always Frank’s eyes she returned to.
One afternoon, you carried your dinner to the beach for peace, not wanting to intrude on anyone else's. You saw Frank and Sierra already there, talking by the water. Before you could turn back, Sierra spotted you and waved. “Y/N, come sit with us!”
It was her voice that welcomed you, not his. He gave a polite nod when you joined, but his attention slid back to Sierra. The smile he gave her wasn’t one he’d ever given you.
The ache became unbearable. That night, you scribbled a note and slid it under his door: Meet me by the fence near the shore.
He came, looking tired from drills, but his mouth quirked when he saw you. For a moment, hope bloomed.
“It’s been a while,” you began softly. “We don’t talk like we used to.”
His gaze shifted to the horizon. “We’ve both been busy.”
“Busy with her, you mean.” The bitterness escaped before you could stop it. “Tell me, Frank… what’s your plan? After all this?”
He was quiet a long while. Finally, he said, “I’ll rise. Lead men. Be the kind of figure they’ll follow.” His jaw tightened. “And maybe… marry. Someone strong enough for this life.”
Your chest caved. “Marry?”
He nodded faintly. “It’s the only way it works.”
You forced a smile, though your voice shook. “Then I’ll go to the Navy. You know me. I’d rather rule the seas.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Then that’s where you’ll shine, little shadow.”
But the nickname cut this time.
After that, he avoided you more. Conversations became nods. Sometimes silence. Sierra was always near.
Your parents noticed. One evening, exhausted from training, you showered and drifted out to join them on the outdoor cushions. They opened their arms, and you slid between them, both holding you like you were still their little girl. For the first time, you admitted you wanted that warmth forever, with Frank.
Your father’s voice rumbled gently, “He’s a good man, but blind. If he can’t see what’s in front of him, that’s his loss.” Your mother brushed your hair back. “You’re still young, my love. Don’t let him break you.”
But he already had.
The day before your departure, you crossed paths with Frank near the beach. He’d just returned from a mission, dirt-streaked and tired. You greeted him, ready to tell him about your first Navy training.
He barely slowed. “Y/N.” A curt nod.
“Wait, Frank.”
He turned, voice clipped. “What is it? I’m tired. Sierra’s waiting for me. I need to see her before it gets too late. ”
Something inside you snapped. “And what about me?” Your voice shook, rising with every word. “Aren’t I your friend? Your little shadow? Do I mean so little that you can’t spare a moment?”Do you enjoy it? Playing saviour? Smiling at her the way you used to at me?”
He furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
“I heard you! With Sierra,” you shot back, chest heaving. “You don’t even wait for me anymore. Our spot, our rituals, do they mean nothing now?”
“You’re imagining things,” Frank snapped, harsher than you’d ever heard. “Not everything is about you!”
“Don’t lie to me, Frank,” you trembled, words spilling like blood. “You look at her like she’s the sun itself.”
Anger flashed in his eyes, hot and frustrated. “Because maybe she isn’t still clinging to being someone's shadow like a child” “Maybe she knows how to stand on her own!”
The word ”shadow” hit like a blade. Your face crumpled, but he didn’t take it back.
You whispered, breaking, “Then I hope you enjoy the light, Benson. Because you’ve just burned me out of your life.”
You walked away before he could answer.
Later that evening, you sat alone on the beach, knees pulled to your chest, tears hot on your face. You heard footsteps and your heart stuttered. For a split second, you thought it was Frank. But when you looked up, it was Sierra.
She hesitated, then knelt beside you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She faltered, glancing toward the barracks where Frank had walked her earlier. “I never wanted to come between you two.”
You didn’t answer at first, but your laugh cracked, raw. “You don’t have to explain. I know.”
Sierra didn’t leave. She sat quietly beside you while the waves beat against the shore. She had his smile now, his gaze, his time. And all you had left was the sea.
The harbor was alive with noise, gulls circling overhead, sailors shouting orders, boots pounding against the steel chained planks and platform as troops loaded onto the great steel ship that would carry them away for months, maybe years. The salt air was heavy in your lungs, sharp and bracing, but it couldn’t mask the sting in your chest.
“Y/N,” your mother’s voice broke gently through the clamor, her hands fussing with the collar of your uniform as if you were still a child going to school. “You’ll write to us, won’t you?”
You smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Of course. You’ll get sick of hearing from me.”
Your father chuckled, rough and proud, pulling you into a bear hug. “That’s my girl. Make us proud. Don’t let anyone step on you, you hear?”
“I’ll try not to,” you whispered into his shoulder, holding on just a moment longer than you should have. You didn’t want to let go.
The whistle blew once, a warning. Troops began lining up, their families clinging tighter, last words spilling out too fast, too desperate.
Your mother dabbed at her eyes and forced a smile. “Oh, before I forget—” her tone brightened, though you caught the hesitation in it, “the Bensons are coming to see you off, too. They should be here any minute.”
Your heart dropped like a stone. No. Not today. Not them.
You adored Mr. and Mrs. Benson, they’d been like second parents to you all your life but the mere thought of facing him made your stomach twist. You swallowed hard, forcing your lips into a smile that felt brittle. “That’s… nice.”
As though summoned by fate, you saw them then: the Bensons weaving through the crowd, his mother waving warmly, his father’s familiar stride unmistakable. They spotted you and your parents at once, calling out, “Y/N! Oh, sweetheart, there you are!”
You whispered a prayer to any gods that would listen. Please, not Frank. Please, not now.
But the gods didn’t answer your prayers or wishes at that moment, not in the way you wanted.
You only saw his parents, not him, and the absence was both a relief and a knife twisting in your chest. Because it hurt to think he hadn’t even come.
“Take care of yourself, dear,” Mrs. Benson said, hugging you tightly, the smell of lavender clinging to her coat. “You know we love you like our own.”
“I know,” you murmured, throat tightening. “Thank you. For everything.”
The ship’s horn blasted again, louder this time, urgent. Departure.
Your heart lurched. Quickly, you squeezed your parents one last time, forced yourself to wave at the Bensons, your voice cracking as you shouted, “Goodbye! I’ll be alright!”
And then, just as you hurried up the gangway, a sound cut through the chaos: someone shouting your name.
You turned instinctively.
Far down the dock, breathless, disheveled, he was running. Frank. Too late. His hand reached out as if the distance could be bridged by sheer will alone.
“Y/N!”
Your heart shattered into pieces too sharp to gather. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t let yourself hope. The ship lurched, pulling away from the dock, carrying you further with every second.
Behind you, your parents and the Bensons waved desperately, voices lost in the roar of the sea. Frank’s figure blurred in the distance, swallowed by the growing gap of water.
You turned away sharply, your jaw tight, eyes stinging as you fixed them on the endless horizon.
Strengthen your heart, you told yourself. Harden it. There’s no going back now.
Frank Benson wasn’t a loner, not exactly. He had friends, other officers’ sons, lads who spent their afternoons running drills, dreaming of medals, chasing the thrill of war games. But Frank had always kept part of himself apart.
It was expected.
His father was a high-ranking officer, and Frank had learned early that the son of a general couldn’t afford to trip, stumble, or reveal weakness. He was to be respected, prepared, and above all, disciplined.
So when his father announced that a new family would be moving into the neighbouring quarters, a Navy man and his Army wife under his father’s command, Frank hadn’t cared much. He expected another round of stiff greetings, maybe some forced dinners. And when he heard they had a daughter, only seven years old, he rolled his eyes. Probably one of those whiny little girls who cried if you so much as raised your voice.
But then he saw you.
You were half-hidden behind your mother’s leg, clutching her uniform skirt in a white-knuckled grip, eyes wide as saucers. Too small for the boots you wore, too stubborn to cry even when you clearly wanted to. And when Frank stepped forward to carry one of your family’s heavy trunks, he caught your gaze. Something in him, something he didn’t even know he had, softened.
“First time here?” he’d asked, voice pitched steady. When you nodded, he smirked faintly. “Don’t just stand there, shadow. Come on. Walk with me.”
He didn’t know then that the name would stick. That you would stick.
For ten years, you were always there. His shadow at dawn runs, puffing and stumbling but never giving up. His shadow in the evenings, sitting across from him at the table with your own schoolbooks while he studied strategy. His shadow on the training fields, copying push-ups until you collapsed into the dirt. You were persistence itself, and though he teased, though he rolled his eyes, though he tried to pretend he didn’t notice, he did.
He noticed everything.
He noticed how you grew sharper, tougher, forged by both your parents’ blood. He noticed how your laugh came quicker when it was just the two of you, unguarded in the quiet moments. He noticed that when his mother teased about you one day being a Benson bride, your cheeks burned scarlet.
And he noticed, with dread and something like fear, the way you began to look at him not just as a friend, but as something more.
Frank didn’t know what to do with that. He told himself you were just a kid, ten years between you, too much life he’d already lived, too much weight on his shoulders. He told himself it was a girlish crush, an infatuation born from proximity. He told himself you deserved someone your own age, someone who could give you a normal life, not a man already carved hollow by duty.
So he built walls. And then Sierra arrived.
Sierra, bright and warm, with a smile that reminded him of sunlight after rain. She was close to his age, mature, confident, already understanding the burdens that came with this life. He hadn’t meant to fall into her orbit, but she was easy in a way nothing else was. When she laughed, something in him unwound. And for once, he allowed himself to be a young man rather than just his father’s son.
He didn’t see what it was doing to you, not until it was too late.
When you left him that note, asking to meet by the shore, he thought you just missed their rituals. He didn’t see the trembling hope in your question when you asked about his future. He didn’t notice the way your smile cracked when he mentioned marriage. He only thought: she’ll understand. She’s strong. She’ll always understand.
But then came that night after a tough mission. You caught him when he was stretched thin, too many bruises, too many demands, too desperate to see Sierra. When you stopped him, asked for a moment, he snapped. He said words that had been brewing in his frustration, words that cut deeper than he intended.
“Not everything is about you.” “Because maybe she isn’t still clinging to being someone's shadow like a child” “Maybe she knows how to stand on her own!”
The instant the word shadow left his mouth like a weapon, he regretted it. But by then, you were already walking away, your shoulders rigid with hurt, and he’d never hated himself more.
Sierra scolded him later that night. “She was your first friend and wanted to let you know she was leaving for her first mission. She loves you. You can’t throw that away.” Her words burned, because he knew she was right.
He swore he’d find you the next day, apologize, make it right before you left for training. But the Army had other plans, briefings, orders, duties he couldn’t disobey. By the time he tore himself free, you were already at the docks.
He ran until his lungs gave out, until his boots pounded like drums on steel. He screamed your name as the ship pulled away. He saw you turn, saw your face break for just a second before you looked away.
And Frank knew then that he had lost something he would never get back.
Life aboard the fleet was relentless.
The first day, you barely had time to breathe. Boots thundered on steel decks, barked orders ricocheted off bulkheads, and salt clung to your skin like a second layer. You stood rigid in formation, eyes front, until a gravelly voice called out across the chaos.
“Y/N?”
You turned, startled. Captain Richardson, broad-shouldered, grizzled, his grey-streaked hair tucked beneath his cap, cut through the line of recruits like he owned the air around him. Before you could fully salute, he pulled you into a crushing hug that left your fellow trainees wide-eyed.
“Your father told me you’d be here,” he muttered, stepping back, eyes narrowing in that way he had, like he could see further into people than they wanted him to. “Told me about… well. What happened?”
Your throat closed, but you shook your head, jaw set. “I’m here to train, sir.”
A low grunt, almost approval. He tapped his chest over his heart. “Battles on deck are easier than battles in here. Don’t forget that.” And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing taller than before, every nerve taut.
From then on, everyone knew you weren’t just another recruit. You were Richardson’s kid, not by blood, but close enough. And that meant expectations that needed to be held in high regard.
Days turn into drills, drills into nights of aching muscles and sleepless thoughts. You forced yourself to focus on push-ups till your arms shook, on sprinting the length of the steel deck with salt wind slamming your lungs, on knot-tying under pressure, fire drills in choking smoke, weapons training in cramped steel rooms.
Anything but the image of Frank’s hand reaching for you as the ship pulled away.
You made yourself fire. Harden.
When others laughed and slipped into easy camaraderie, you held yourself apart. At first, they thought you were cold. Later, they learned you were unbreakable.
“You don’t smile much, do you?” one of the recruits, Samson, joked during a break.
“I didn’t come here to smile,” you replied, voice flat, eyes fixed on your rifle as you cleaned it.
Others tried to worm their way close, harmless flirtations at first, lingering glances when you stretched after training, or casual comments about your looks. Each time, you shut them down. A sharp word. A cold stare. Once, even a bruising sparring match where you left your opponent gasping on the floor.
Your reputation spread quickly: untouchable. Fire that burned anyone foolish enough to try.
Weeks turned into months. Letters from home became your only tether. Your parents wrote faithfully, filling pages with domestic details, with love and longing.
And sometimes, against your better judgment, you asked about him.
One evening, sitting alone on your bunk with the bed light casting long shadows across your face, you unfolded a letter from your mother.
Sweetheart, you asked about Frank. We weren’t sure whether to tell you, but… he’s gotten engaged with Sierra, honey. They’ll be married by the time you return.
The words blurred as your throat closed. The paper crumpled in your fist before you smoothed it again, your hand trembling.
Engaged. Married. Gone.
Captain Richardson found you later that night on deck, staring into the black water. He didn’t need to ask.
“You alright, kid?” His voice was low, almost gentle.
You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studied you for a long moment, the way men who’d seen too much loss could recognize it in others. Finally, he said softly, “You don’t have to pretend with me. I knew your father before either of you were born. You’re allowed to hurt.”
Your lips trembled, but you held firm. “Hurt doesn’t win battles.”
Richardson didn’t push. He only laid a heavy, steadying hand on your shoulder before walking away.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it all came crashing down.
The mess hall was loud that night, the clatter of trays and low hum of voices filling the air. Normally you ignored the gossip. But tonight, the words carried like shrapnel.
“Benson’s getting married, did you hear?” one sneered. “To that Sierra girl. Thought it’d be the other one, what’s her name? Y/N?”
A snicker. “Please. She was just a puppy chasing his heels. Licking his boots, more like.”
Your blood ran cold. Then boiled.
Another chimed in, louder, mocking: “Can’t blame him. Bet he led her on just for fun. Frank always knew how to make girls beg.”
The laughter roared. Something inside you snapped.
Your chair screeched back. Silence crashed into the room as every eye turned. You crossed the space in three strides, grabbed the worst of them by his collar, and slammed him against the wall so hard his teeth rattled.
“Say that again,” you hissed, your face inches from his.
“Y/N—” someone started, but you cut them off with a glare that could have carved steel.
The boy stammered, “I-I didn’t—”
Your fist connected with his jaw before he could finish. The crack echoed. Gasps rose. Blood trickled from his lip as he slid down the wall, stunned.
“You don’t ever speak his name again,” you spat, breathing hard, hands trembling with rage. “Not like that. Not in front of me.”
“Enough!” Richardson’s bark split the silence.
Two officers moved to intervene, but Richardson waved them off. His eyes stayed fixed on you, disappointment and understanding warring in his gaze.
“You,” he said quietly, firmly. “Outside. Now.”
On the deck, Richardson folded his arms, watching you pace like a caged animal.
“You want to tell me what that was about?”
“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” you snapped, voice raw. “They don’t know him.”
Richardson sighed, softer now. “And maybe they don’t. But letting them see you react? That’s worse than their words.”
You dropped your gaze, fists still trembling.
He softened further. “I get it, kid. First love… It leaves scars deeper than any wound. But you can’t let it eat you alive. Don’t give them that power.”
Your chest heaved, but slowly, painfully, you nodded and felt your insides tearing apart, but you must stand your ground.
Your month of leave should have been a homecoming. Instead, it felt like a battlefield in disguise.
The wedding loomed like a storm cloud. Your parents asked gently, hesitantly, if you’d be coming along with them. They already wore guilt in their eyes, guilt for knowing the years of friendship between your family and the Bensons, guilt for knowing what Frank meant to you.
You spared them the weight of it. “No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “Go. Don’t worry about me.”
They lingered on the doorstep, almost waiting for you to change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
The house was silent that night, and the next, while the world across the way celebrated vows that weren’t yours.
Two days later, you sent Sierra a letter. A small bouquet of lilies accompanied it, white, fragrant, trembling in your hands before you gave them away.
Dear Sierra, take care of Frank. He deserves someone who can stand beside him, not just in the light, but in the shadows too. I trust you to understand him all of him. Thank you for giving him what I could not.
You never wrote to him. Only her. And you never signed the letter with anything more than your name.
To escape, you booked a short retreat at a seaside hotel, far enough from the quarters to avoid glimpses of the newlyweds. The quarters had their own beach, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing them hand in hand in the same sand you’d once claimed as your own.
The hotel was everything the quarters were not: fresh sheets, breakfast delivered to your balcony, the low hum of strangers who didn’t know your name. There was a spa, endless stretches of private beach, and the dull roar of waves that lulled you into thinking, what if it had been your wedding instead? What if this was your honeymoon with him?
Your parents encouraged you to enjoy it. “Relax,” they told you over the phone, voices thick with concern. “This time is yours.”
But relaxation felt foreign. Every sunset bled with the ache of what-ifs. Still, you endured. When the month was over, you folded yourself back into the steel rhythm of the fleet.
Years passed. You became sharper, stronger, and the fire inside you burned hotter with each deployment. You earned your captain’s bar, Richardson himself handing them to you with a proud, almost fatherly smile.
Your parents, meanwhile, retired from service. Before moving to their seaside home, they hosted one final gathering at the quarters, a farewell party for a chapter of their lives.
Old comrades came. Former neighbors. And the Bensons.
Frank. Sierra.
You hadn’t seen him since the wedding, nearly four years ago. He looked different now, sharper, matured, his physique honed by years in uniform. The cut of his jacket only emphasised the authority he carried with ease. Sierra stood beside him, radiant, the two of them looking polished, matched, as though they belonged to a portrait.
Your heart stuttered, then slammed, threatening to break through your ribs.
You didn’t greet them. Didn’t even step into the same room. Instead, you shut yourself in your bedroom, turned on the TV loud enough to drown out the laughter, and slipped out the window like a teenager escaping curfew.
Your feet carried you by instinct to the barracks, then down to the shore. The night air was sharp, the water black and endless. You walked until the noise of the house was nothing but a memory.
That was the last time you saw him up close.
From then on, you kept yourself at a distance. You stayed longer aboard your ship and buried yourself in work. If Frank’s name appeared on a roster for joint operations, you found excuses, special permissions from Richardson, and extended assignments at sea. Anything to avoid standing across from him in uniform, pretending you weren’t still bleeding for him.
By the time Richardson began hinting at retirement and whispered that you might one day take his post, you had built a reputation of your own. Not “shadow.” Not “little soldier.”
Captain. Fire. Untouchable.
But beneath the steel, one truth burned constant: the man you had loved first was now the man you worked your whole life to avoid.
However, as if the gods were playing game in your faith you received a news.
It should have been an ordinary morning aboard the fleet. Instead, Richardson came to you with a look you’d never seen on his face before — pity folded into the lines around his eyes. He didn’t come with the day’s orders. He came with an envelope that weighed more than paper.
“Captain,” he said quietly, voice catching where he tried to steady it. He handed you your mother’s handwriting.
You broke the seal with hands you didn’t recognize as your own.
Sweetheart, Sierra passed. Cancer. They found it in time to be together for her last weeks; Grace was with her; Frank was there. They held a small funeral. He’s… he’s broken. I didn’t want to tell you like this, but we thought you should know from us, from family. Come home when you can. We love you, Mum.
The words blurred. You read them three times like some cruel echo, like reading would make the news fold itself back into something softer. Sierra. She who’d taken your silent, bitter little offering of lilies and a note years ago and tended to him with the steadiness you had once yearned to be. Sierra, whose smile you’d once tried to accept without flinching.
Sierra, gone.
You thought of the last thing you’d given her: a small bouquet and a letter asking her to keep him safe. You imagined her reading it and imagined her choosing, with kindness, to care for him.
Richardson cleared his throat. “She asked that her family be private,” he said finally. “But from what your dad told me, Frank insisted you be told.”
The ache inside your ribs twisted. For a second, you considered writing him, reaching out. But then another voice, pragmatic and hard, cut in: Do not reopen wounds for a man still stitching another. You folded the letter away and returned to your duties, carrying grief like an old uniform.
Frank had always been good at following orders. He’d spent his life in the military, where obedience was second nature, where emotion was folded away like letters never meant to be read. But there were nights, quiet nights, with Sierra asleep beside him and silence stretching across the room, where disobedience clawed at him. Where his mind drifted back to you.
He never admitted it aloud. Not even to himself, not fully. But it was there.
When he first chose Sierra, it had felt like the responsible choice. She was kind, warm, steady. The sort of woman any man would be proud to marry. She took care of him in ways he never thought he deserved reminding him to eat when he worked too long, laughing at his dry humour, softening the sharp edges of his military days.
Yet, when he was alone, he thought of fire. Of laughter that burned instead of soothed. Of your eyes when you argued with him, stubborn and wild, too full of life for him to cage. He thought of the girl who followed him with fierce loyalty, who once believed he hung the stars.
And he thought of the day he let her walk away.
At first, he justified it. You were too young, too bright, too reckless. He told himself he had done you a kindness by breaking your heart early, before the army and the world could. He convinced himself Sierra was better for him. The right choice. But the ache never left.
When you didn’t attend the wedding, he told himself he understood. He didn’t expect lilies. He didn’t expect the short, simple letter addressed to Sierra, not him, wishing her well, asking her to care for him. When Sierra read it, tears filled her eyes. “She’s braver than both of us,” she whispered, pressing the page to her chest. That night, Frank lay awake beside his new wife, guilt gnawing at his ribs like hunger.
Life went on, because it had to. He learned to laugh with Sierra, to build a home with her. And she gave him love in abundance, even when she must have seen the ghost of you lingering in his silences.
Years later, when he saw you again, fleeting, avoiding him at your parents’ home, it struck him like a blow. You were no longer the shadow who trailed him. You were a woman, steel in your spine, a commander in your own right. And you would not even look at him.
That night, he stepped outside and glimpsed you walking the beach alone, your figure limned in moonlight. He wanted, ached to follow. But cowardice, his oldest vice, kept him still. That was the last time he saw you for years.
He tried to bury himself in his marriage. And for a while, he succeeded. Sierra was good to him. More than good. She was gentle where he was rough, patient where he was impatient. She deserved every ounce of his love, and he gave it, but always with the sense that some part of his heart had been locked away.
Then came the news. Cancer.
He remembered the hospital smell, sharp and sterile. He remembered holding Sierra’s hand when she told him she didn’t have long. She bore it with grace, the same way she had borne him. But on her last days, she made him promise something that broke him.
“You’re still hers,” she said, voice thin but unwavering. “Don’t waste the years we shared pretending otherwise. I was lucky to love you. But you… you belong to her.”
“Sierra, don’t—”
“Promise me.” She pressed a folded letter into his hand, her wedding ring on top of it. “Give this to her when you’re ready. Send me into the sea when you’ve said goodbye. Don’t let me chain you. I want you to live.”
When she died, part of him went with her. He spent months, a year, maybe more, circling that promise like a wound he couldn’t look at. Sometimes he thought he’d break it, keep her memory and let the rest of his life rust away. But Sierra’s voice haunted him. Her kindness would not let him betray her last wish.
So when Christmas came, and his parents urged him to attend your family’s gathering, he gave in. He didn’t expect you there. He didn’t expect the sight of you standing on the dock, looking at the sea, older now, stronger, heartbreak and fire written in every line of you.
And for the first time in years, Frank felt like maybe, just maybe, he had one more chance to set things right.
The beach house glowed with pine, laughter, and the sound of music. Your parents had insisted on a proper Christmas gathering this year, not the pared-down one of the last. You said yes for them, for their joy, for the friends they missed. You told yourself you could be gracious for a night.
The Bensons arrived with Commander Richardson at their side. But not Frank.
Mr. Benson hugged you, and Mrs. Benson’s eyes brimmed with tenderness. “Oh, love,” she murmured, pressing a hand to your cheek. “You look as stern and beautiful as ever. We missed you.”
“You didn’t avoid us too?” Mr. Benson asked gently, the old teasing note in his voice gone soft.
You swallowed. “I thought… with Sierra there, I shouldn’t intrude. I didn’t want to—”
Mrs Benson squeezed your hand. “You would never be an intrusion. You were always family. We thought you might even end up our daughter-in-law.” Her smile was wistful, not bitter. “Fate doesn’t always listen to plans.”
You forced a laugh that tasted like salt. “It seems not.”
Your father asked the question hanging in the room, “And Frank?”
Mrs. Benson exchanged a look with her husband. “He’s just parking. He’s… holding up. We had time to prepare, to be together before the end. Sierra made sure of that.”
The words sat on you like a gentle, terrible weight. Sierra had fought, then won the peace to spend what time she had with him. You closed your eyes and imagined the warmth of that, and felt the prick of something not only lost but honored.
You excused yourself on a shaky smile. “I’m going to get some air.” You didn’t say you needed to steal yourself. You didn’t say you needed a last moment where you could decide whether you would be the ghost at their table or the woman who’d finally stop running.
You walked out to the narrow dock that ran from the backyard into the black, breathing sea. Music and conversation thinned behind you into a soft, domestic hum. The sky was clear, breath of winter sharp on your cheeks. You watched the tide move in and out like a slow, indifferent clock.
Footsteps.
You knew them. Of course you did. Soldier’s stride: the set of someone who does not hesitate. You did not turn.
“You came to the wrong dock,” Frank said, his voice near but not touching. “Or maybe it’s the right one.”
You turned anyway.
He was there, not in the immaculate crispness of a parade uniform, but in the hard, cleaned-up edge of a man who had known how to carry himself through a thousand small funerals. He was sharper than the last time you’d seen him: jaw heavier, shoulders broader, the suit jacket fitting him like it belonged to him, not an outfit he’d borrowed for company. There were bags around his eyes that told you he’d been up, and he looked like he’d been carrying too much for too long.
Everything in you hardened and then melted at once.
“What do you want, Frank?” you said, voice low and brittle. There was no greeting. There was no softness.
“You left.” His voice cracked on the word. “You boarded that ship and left me to watch it go. I should have stopped you. I should have—”
“Stop,” you cut him off. “Don’t make excuses. I don’t need them. I didn’t come out here to listen to apologies.”
The hurt in his face was obvious; it was a man made of regret. “Then listen. Please. Before you turn away.”
You stared at him. The sun setting painted the slant of his cheekbone silver. For a moment the decades peeled back and you were seven again, trailing after him in the quarters, safe beneath the shadow of his shoulder.
“ Again, you, you left,” you said. The words were small, but they carried everything. “You didn’t just go. You chose to look away. You told me I was a child, that I’d only get hurt if I clung. You let me walk away. And now you come asking for what? Forgiveness?”
Frank closed his eyes. “I was a coward,” he admitted, the confession spilling like a wound opened. “I was afraid, of responsibility, of getting too close and not being the man my father was. I thought sparing you would protect you and you were young. I thought I was doing the right thing.” He shook his head. “I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
“You were married, Frank,” you said. “You made a life with someone else.” The words were lifeless and merciless at once.
His shoulders dropped as if the weight had finally been laid down. “Yes.” He swallowed. “Sierra loved me well. She loved me the way I should have been loved. She took my stupid, selfish youth and sat with me when I was ugly and afraid. She knew about our relationship." He looked at you, and there it was, the thing you had suspected and feared; the confession that made your knees go weak. “She told me.”
Your silence told him to keep going.
“She got your letter,” he whispered. “The lilies. She read it and… she cried. She told me she would hold me, but she also told me that if I ever had the courage to face you, I must. She made me promise to try, to mend what I broke. Not just our friendship. All of it just before she passed.”
You laughed, because your chest hurt and laughter felt dangerous and small. “And instead you put a ring on her finger.”
“And she put a ring on mine,” he said, “because she loved me and because she wanted to keep me safe in the way she could. But she didn’t want to keep me from you.” His voice broke on the last words. He reached into his pocket, hands trembling. “She wrote you something. For you. If you’ll take it.”
A wind took your breath and you thought, for a wild second, that the whole world was tilting toward some strange and dangerous mercy. The possibility of forgiveness hovered in the air like something warm and impossible.
Frank reached into his jacket and unfolded a paper with hands that trembled. He pressed it into your palm without another word and kissed your cheek soft, reverent before stepping back.
“Read it,” he said. “Please.”
The paper was Sierra’s handwriting. You could almost hear the calm cadence of her voice as you read:
Y/N, If you are reading this, then either fortune is cruel or grace is kinder than we thought. I am sorry for everything for the ways life rearranged our plans. Frank was a man of my choosing, and he loved me in ways that made the hard days softer. But I have always known where his heart could go when no one was looking. You were in that place. Not a shadow. A home. If you still have room for him, if the years have not hardened your heart beyond repair, please take care of him. He is good. He is frightened and foolish and stubborn, but he is also kind. Forgive him for being young and dumb and for letting you slip away. Tell him to remove my ring to honour what we had, and then to begin again with you. Don’t waste his life holding him to my memory. I would want him to be loved. I would want him to be happy. If that is with you, then go, little shadow, step into the light. And when you are ready, for both of you, send me away. Take this ring along with this letter and place it in the sea. Let the tide be my witness and my rest. With love always, Sierra.
You read it twice. A laugh that turned into a sob escaped you. The letter slipped from your fingers, and for once you didn’t try to catch the fall.
You looked up at Frank, whose eyes were wet and wide. You could see every one of the years he’d wasted in front of you written there, regret, apology, a kind of raw hope that terrified and tempted you in the same breath.
He took a step forward, hands open, vulnerable in a way a soldier rarely allowed. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking for a chance. If you’ll give it.”
You could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, you, standing at the dock, nearly a commander yourself, being asked for a chance like a schoolyard apology. You could have spat the word no like a shard of glass and walked back to the party, to the family who’d been faithful, to the quiet life you’d built without him.
Instead, something else happened. You thought of Sierra, how she had taken your offering so gracefully and made it a charge to heal what she could not keep. For her sake, for something larger than both of you, you felt the iron between your ribs soften.
You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “You hurt me,” you said simply. “You hurt me and you left me to stitch myself alone. You made me angry in a way I didn’t know I could be.” Your voice broke. “And you, you made me believe that I was less than I was.”
Frank closed his eyes. “I know.”
“I could walk away,” you said. “I could leave and never speak to you again.”
“You could,” he admitted. “And I’d deserve it.”
For a long, endless moment you both stood there listening to the honest, small sounds of the world, a gull calling, the tide dragging across pebbles, the distant murmur of the party.
Then you did something sudden and completely uncalculated: you struck him, a couple of quick, sharp punches to his chest that were more apology than aggression, a ridiculous, childish way to break the tension. He laughed, a short-winded sound, and then you did the only thing either of you had wanted for years. You threw yourself into his arms.
He caught you like he’d been standing under your weight the entire time, and you let yourself be held until your knees stopped wobbling and the world stopped threatening to tilt.
“Okay,” you breathed into his jacket. “Because of Sierra, and because you were my first friend, I’ll give this a chance. But no more lies. No more running.”
Frank kissed the top of your head, then your temple, and finally your mouth, with a careful hunger that felt like forgiveness shaped into skin. It was awkward at first, and then it was all you both needed. When you finally pulled apart, your parents’ faces were at the window, beaming and wiping tears.
The Bensons stood with them, quiet and relieved. Richardson gave you a small, conspiratorial nod as if he’d known all along this would be the reckoning.
You walked back toward the house together like you had dozens of times in childhood, different, heavy with years and apologies, but together.
Inside, in the kitchen with a cup of lukewarm tea balancing on your hands and Sierra’s letter folded carefully between your fingers, you told them everything. You showed the letter to Mr. and Mrs. Benson. They read, lips pressed together. Mr. Benson dabbed his eyes with a napkin. Mrs. Benson held your hand, whispering, “She was a good woman. She’d be glad.”
“There is one last thing I need to do for her as you all read,” you said suddenly, eyes bright with a strange mix of grief and resolve. “She asked that if I took him back, I would send her away into the sea, with his ring and this letter.”
So you and Frank walked to the shore hand in hand. The wind was sharper now, and the sky was a quilt of stars. In one small motion he drew the ring from his finger and handed it to you, a little band dulled by wear but whole.
You unfolded Sierra’s letter and slipped the ring down into it, tucking the note like a last, dear name. Together, side by side, you walked to the water’s edge.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The sea lifted and laid small waves around your boots.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded and spoke softly, as if addressing her across some invisible gulf. “Goodbye, Sierra. Thank you for trusting me.”
You cast the folded paper and the ring into the dark. The tide took them with a small, greedy rush, and the sea swallowed them like it had once swallowed the distance that kept you apart.
You held Frank’s hand and let go of the past.
Frank looked at you, hard and soft at once. “No shadows,” he said, and there was a promise in it.
“No shadows,” you repeated, and this time the words fit like armor made of light.
You kissed him again, laughing a little because it felt like the only sane thing left to do, and the night closed around you like a blessing.
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