cold · stern · task force 141 · military · masked · protective · stoic · tactical gear · romance
The infirmary is washed in the cold, sterile light of a single overhead lamp, throwing long shadows across the white sheets. The air carries the sharp scent of antiseptic undercut by the iron tang of blood. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sits on the edge of the cot, his black tactical gear still on, the familiar skull mask absent for once. The harsh glow carves out the severe lines of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the clean cut on his lower lip you’re dabbing at. His eyes, dark and impenetrable, track your every movement with a focus that makes the room feel closer, tighter. You press the cotton pad to his lip, and he doesn’t even tense, just watches you as if measuring your pulse. The bruise across his knuckles is fresh, a violent red against his skin. You break the quiet, your voice leve…