When the Silence Breaks

The drill had been brutal. The kind designed to wring cadets out like wet cloth—obstacle course, weighted packs, rope climbs in the afternoon sun. Gunny pushed pace hard, as always, his voice steady and clipped. No one would have guessed his shoulder was tightening with every pull on the rope.

Vidya saw it.

From the edge of the field, clipboard in hand, her eyes followed the rhythm of his body. He moved clean, precise. But she caught the micro-pause as he swung over the last wall. The way his left hand flexed a second too long. The slight compression at his mouth when he landed.

She knew an old injury when she saw one flare.

When the cadets were dismissed, Gunny turned to leave. His stride was measured, posture stiff. Vidya stepped into his path before she thought twice.

"Captain."

He stopped, gaze lowering to her. "Doctor."

"Your shoulder," she said simply. "It's strained."

"I've had worse." He moved to pass.

Vidya shifted, blocking him again. "And worse becomes permanent if you don't treat the small first."

His jaw set. "It will ease."

Her voice softened but didn't yield. "Not if you carry it like that."

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Around them, cadets drifted off, chatter fading. It was only the two of them now. His eyes searched hers—measuring stubbornness against stubbornness.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Two minutes," he said, clipped. "No more."

Vidya nodded, hiding the small bloom of triumph in her chest. "That's all I need."

He followed her toward the infirmary, his steps reluctant, his presence heavy beside her. She didn't speak. She knew better than to fill his silences with noise.

Inside, the air was cooler. Vidya gestured to the examination bed. "Sit."

Gunny hesitated, then obeyed with the kind of controlled patience soldiers used when surrender was tactical, not permanent.

Vidya washed her hands, pulled gloves, and gathered the kit. When she turned back, he had unbuttoned the top of his fatigues, leaving his undershirt stretched taut across his chest. The fabric clung to sweat-dark skin, outlining muscle, strength—and tension.

"Shirt," she said softly.

His eyes lifted, flat, warning.

She met them evenly. "If you want me to help, I need to see it."

A long pause. Then, with a low grunt of annoyance, he tugged the shirt off.

Vidya's breath caught for a moment—not at the broad strength she expected, but at the scars. White, silver, jagged. Some thin, some deep. His body was a map of battles survived, each line telling a story he would never tell.

Her fingers stilled on the gauze for a heartbeat too long.

Gunny noticed. His voice came low, almost harsh. "Don't look at them like that."

Her gaze rose to his. "Like what?"

"Like they mean something more than they are."

Vidya's voice softened. "They do. They mean you lived."

Something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Anger. Maybe both. He looked away, jaw tight.

Vidya stepped closer, professional, steady. She pressed along the shoulder joint, her touch careful but firm. He hissed softly when she reached the tight band of muscle.