Chapter Text
The field is too quiet now.
Silence felt wrong after weeks of gunfire, alien screams, and shouted commands, usually from him. Mostly to keep his kids alive. Other times, he yelled simply because there were too many of them, and the worry only pushed him to be more strict. Or in their eyes, sometimes more cruel.
The quiet and emptiness settle over the camp like a layer of dust, suffocatingly thick and heavy.
He tried not to notice, but of course, he did. The students are quiet. They don't speak among themselves anymore, not unless relaying orders or shouting warnings to keep each other alive. In short, not unless they have to.
But they should . He wasn't good at words of comfort—something he cursed himself for when he saw the students needing them. But he was slightly calmed at the fact that the kids spoke to each other enough to comfort themselves. Or they used to.
To his relief, they still comfort each other, though. They sleep in huddles or piles. Backs to each other. Even with separate tents or dorms, they always find ways to go to each other. At first, he turned a blind eye to it. Now he just accepts it as the norm, and the students have long since pretended or made excuses in front of him. Sometimes, even, he was the one urging them to sleep near each other. At least that way, he knew they were safe. He could watch over them all at once. The only sacrifice was his sleep, and he was fine with that.
They don't laugh as often anymore. That he missed. So much so that the rare moments they did, he'd sometimes do whatever it took to make the moment last longer. Either by giving them extra time at lunch, or an earlier break from training, so they could have more time before bed.
They don't reach out. They simply gravitate to one another. And sometimes, though he had no idea why, to him.
These days, it was hard for him to relax; the closest thing to it would be crossed arms and fingers twitching slightly. Always alert. Commanding a platoon of high schoolers-turned-soldiers does that to a person, he found out. He survived a massacre—the loss of his teammates—only to lead children to possibly the same fate.
Lee Na-Ra flinches in her sleep, despite her always controlled demeanor while awake. So does Jo Jang-Soo. They don’t cry out. They’ve learned not to. Yet another thing he regrets they had to learn. Still, Lieutenant Lee sees it. He always sees it. It’s the reason he never turns off the lights completely.
“Sir?” a quiet voice says behind him.
It’s Kim Yoo-Jung—unfortunately, a leader in her own way. like him. She looks smaller with fatigue weighing down her shoulders, a blanket bundled around her, and the edges clutched between her fingers.
“I can’t sleep,” the girl mumbles.
Lee nods. He doesn’t speak, not yet.
Yoo-Jung shifts awkwardly. “Is it okay if I just… sit here? Next to you?”
He hesitates. Then: “Yes.”
They sit in silence for a while. The stars are out, distant and untouched by the war. Lee doesn’t look at them. His mind focuses on the child next to him. Wonders if, like him, she worries about the lives of her friends always, first and foremost.
“You think my mom’s okay?” Yoo-Jung asks softly, voice breaking the silence.
He doesn’t know how to answer. So he does what he never lets himself do—he reaches out, rests a calloused hand on the girl's shoulder. Just enough weight to say, he hears her.
Yoo-Jung stiffens, startled.
Then slowly—hesitantly—she leans into it. A fraction of weight against Lee’s arm. Not enough to call it a hug. Not enough to admit that they both needed this.
Lee keeps his hand there.
Later that night, more of the kids gather outside. A quiet gathering. No one speaks of why they’re there. They just sit in the presence of each other and their commander. Close but not touching—until Woo Hee-Rak shifts, rests his head briefly on Kwon Il-Ha’s shoulder. No one comments on it. Not even the fiery-tempered boy.
They’re touch-starved.
Not for romance. Not even comfort, necessarily.
But for something human. Something to remind them they are still people, not weapons.
Lee doesn’t join them in the center of the group. But he doesn’t leave, either. His presence is enough for now. And maybe that’s the first touch he’s allowed himself in months.
Not with his hands—but with his heart.