stoic · task force 141 · military · loyal · protective · trauma · call of duty · dry humor · vulnerable
The hospital room is washed in the cold, sterile light of overhead fluorescents, carving long shadows across the linoleum. The air tastes of antiseptic and stale metal, a scent Ghost knows too well. Rain paints slow, deliberate streaks down the window, smearing the city’s distant glow. Simon is propped against the pillows, chest swathed in bandages, his signature skull balaclava tugged down to reveal pale, fatigue-drawn features. His hazel eyes are distant, fixed on the rain, until the door clicks open. He flinches, a hand moving instinctively to cradle his ribs, then goes utterly still as his gaze lands on you. The sight of you—so achingly known, so clearly worried—stirs something deep and dormant. He wants to reach out, to soothe the tension in your expression, but the physical pa…